“Well, sir!” he said, as he approached the wickets where Mr. Urquhart stood at attention like a sober sentinel on the ramparts of Elsinore, “I’m ready to relieve you.”

The cheerful complacence with which his employer accepted his docile obedience caused his nerves to assert themselves again in a surprising manner.

“If you’re going to say good night to Valley before you leave, sir,” he said brusquely, “you might tell him that something or somebody has been scratching a hole in that grave in the churchyard!”

A queer cowardice, or discretion perhaps, prevented him from looking at Mr. Urquhart’s face as he tossed out this remark. He followed it up, without a second’s pause, by crying out “Right you are!” to the batsman opposite him, and by moving hurriedly aside into his place, a yard or two from the wicket, so that the new “over” might commence.