Ian Hay

“ CILLY; OR THE WORLD WELL LOST.
"Stiffy," bellowed the new curate ferociously, "what the—I mean, why on earth can't you keep that right foot steady? You edge off to leg every time. If you get a straight ball, stand up to it! If you get a leg-ball, turn round and have a slap at it! But for Heaven's sake don't go running away! Especially from things like pats of butter!"
"Awfully sorry, Mr Blunt!" gasped Stiffy abjectly, as another pat of butter sang past his ear. "It's the rotten way I've been brought up! I've never had any decent coaching before. ”

“ Nicky's eyes suddenly unclosed to their full radius. "My che-ild! So that's the game! That was why the pale young curate was jumping fences. Ha-ha! Stiffy, would you like some fun?"
Stiffy, mystified but docile, assented.
"We are going," announced Nicky, rolling gracefully out of the hammock, "to stalk a brace of true lovers."
"What—Mr Blunt and Cilly? Do you mean—? Are they really keen on each other?" inquired the unobservant male amazedly. ”

“ The assistant commissioner, the company officer, the junior-form master, the slum curate—these are they that propel the ship of State. Up above upon the quarter-deck, looking portentously wise and occasionally quarrelling for the possession of the helm, you may behold their superiors—the Cabinet Minister, the Prelate, the Generalissimo. But our friends remain below the water-line, unheeded, uncredited, and see to it that the wheels go round. They expect no thanks, and they are not disappointed. ”

“ He was gazing anxiously through a gap in the hedge which commanded the Rectory garden-gate. "This is my busy day. So long, old man!"
He vaulted the fence, and set off down the road at a vigorous and businesslike trot. But after a hundred yards or so he halted, and looked round him with an air which can only be described as furtive. Before him the road, white and dusty, continued officiously on its way to the village and duty. ”

“ But to-day is Cilly's last for months, so—"
"Do you mean they are down in the Den together?" demanded Stiffy.
"I do."
"But—Mr Blunt has gone off to do parish work. He told me so himself."
"Parish work my foot!" commented Nicky simply. "Come on! Let's go and mark down their trail! We can pretend to be Red Indians, if you like," she added speciously.
But the sportsmanlike Stiffy hung back.
"Let's play cricket instead," he said hesitatingly.
"Not me! Come on!"
"Nicky," said Stiffy, searching his hand, so to speak, for trumps, "Preston is killing a pig this afternoon at four o'clock. ”