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This story will interest and amuse all cricketers, and while from the male point of view it may serve as a good illustration of the fickleness of woman and the impossibility of forecasting what course she will take, the fair sex will find in it an equally shining proof of the colossal vanity of man.

“It’s like this.”

Tom Ellison sat down on the bed, and paused.

“Whack it out,” said Dick Henley encouragingly.

“We’re all friends here, and the password’s ‘Portland.’ What’s the matter?”

“I hate talking to a man when he’s shaving. I don’t want to have you cutting your head off.”

“Don’t worry about me. This is a safety razor. And, anyhow, what’s the excitement? Going to make my flesh creep?”

Tom Ellison kicked uncomfortably at the chair he was trying to balance on one leg.

“It’s so hard to explain.”

“Have a dash at it.”

“Well, look here, Dick, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“We went to the Empire last Boatrace night together—-“

“And got chucked out simultaneously.”

“In fact, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then, whenever there was a rag on, and a bonner in the quad, you always knew you could help yourself to my chairs.”

“You had the run of mine.”

“We’ve shared each other’s baccy.”

“And whisky.”

“In short, we’ve always been pals. What?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then,” said Tom Ellison, “what are you trying to cut me out for?”

“Cut you out?”

“You know what I mean. What do you think I came here for? To play cricket? Rot! I’d much rather have gone on tour with the Authentics. I came here to propose to Dolly Burn.”

Dick Henley frowned.

“I wish you’d speak of her as Miss Burn,” he said austerely.

“There you are, you see,” said Tom with sombre triumph; “you oughtn’t to have noticed a thing like that. It oughtn’t to matter to you what I call her. I always think of her as Dolly.”

“You’ve no right to.”

“I shall have soon.”

“I’ll bet you won’t.”

“How much?”

“Ten to one in anything.”

“Done,” said Tom. “I mean,” he added hastily, “don’t be a fool. There are some things one can’t bet on. As you ought to have known,” he said primly.

“Now, look here,” said Dick, “this thing has got to be settled. You say I’m trying to cut you out. I like that! We may fairly describe that as rich. As if my love were the same sort of passing fancy that yours is. You know you fall in love, as you call it, with every girl you meet.”

“I don’t.”

“Very well. If the subject is painful we won’t discuss it. Still, how about that girl you used to rave about last summer? Ethel Something?”

Tom blushed.

“A mere platonic friendship. We both collected autographs. And, if it comes to that, how about Dora Thingummy? You had enough to say about her last winter.”

Dick reddened.

“We were on good terms. Nothing more. She always sliced with her brassy. So did I. It formed a sort of bond.”

There was a pause.

“After all,” resumed Dick, “I don’t see the point of all this. Why rake up the past? You aren’t writing my life.”

“You started raking.”

“Well, to drop that, what do you propose to do about this? You’re a good chap, Tom, when you aren’t making an ass of yourself; but I’m hanged if I’m going to have you interfering between me and Dolly.”

“Miss Burn.”

Another pause.

“Look here,” said Dick. “Cards on the table. I’ve loved her since last Commem.”

“So have I.”

“We went up the Char together in a Canader. Alone.”

“She also did the trip with me. No chaperone.”

“Twice with me.”

“Same here.”

“She gave me a couple of dances at the Oriel ball.”

“So she did me. She said my dancing was so much better than the average young man’s.”

“She told me I must have had a great deal of practice at waltzing.”

“In the matter of photographs,” said Tom, “she gave me one.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you mean ‘also’ or ‘a brace’?” inquired Tom anxiously.