London brooded under a grey sky. There had been rain in thenight, and the trees were still dripping. Presently, however,there appeared in the laden haze a watery patch of blue: andthrough this crevice in the clouds the sun, diffidently at firstbut with gradually increasing confidence, peeped down on thefashionable and exclusive turf of Grosvenor Square. Stealingacross the square, its rays reached the massive stone walls ofDrexdale House, until recently the London residence of the earlof that name; then, passing through the window of thebreakfast-room, played lightly on the partially bald head of Mr.

　　Bingley Crocker, late of New York in the United States ofAmerica, as he bent over his morning paper. Mrs. Bingley Crocker,busy across the table reading her mail, the rays did not touch.

　　Had they done so, she would have rung for Bayliss, the butler, tocome and lower the shade, for she endured liberties neither fromMan nor from Nature.

　　Mr. Crocker was about fifty years of age, clean-shaven and of acomfortable stoutness. He was frowning as he read. His smooth,good-humoured face wore an expression which might have beendisgust, perplexity, or a blend of both. His wife, on the otherhand, was looking happy. She extracted the substance from hercorrespondence with swift glances of her compelling eyes, just asshe would have extracted guilty secrets from Bingley, if he hadhad any. This was a woman who, like her sister Nesta, had beenable all her life to accomplish more with a glance than otherwomen with recrimination and threat. It had been a popular beliefamong his friends that her late husband, the well-known Pittsburgmillionaire G. G. van Brunt, had been in the habit ofautomatically confessing all if he merely caught the eye of herphotograph on his dressing table.

　　From the growing pile of opened envelopes Mrs. Crocker looked up,a smile softening the firm line of her lips.

　　"A card from Lady Corstorphine, Bingley, for her at-home on thetwenty-ninth."Mr. Crocker, still absorbed, snorted absently.

　　"One of the most exclusive hostesses in England. . . . She hasinfluence with the right sort of people. Her brother, the Duke ofDevizes, is the Premier's oldest friend.""Uh?""The Duchess of Axminster has written to ask me to look after astall at her bazaar for the Indigent Daughters of the Clergy.""Huh?""Bingley! You aren't listening. What is that you are reading?"Mr. Crocker tore himself from the paper.

　　"This? Oh, I was looking at a report of that cricket game youmade me go and see yesterday.""Oh? I am glad you have begun to take an interest in cricket. Itis simply a social necessity in England. Why you ever made such afuss about taking it up, I can't think. You used to be so fond ofwatching baseball and cricket is just the same thing."A close observer would have marked a deepening of the look ofpain on Mr. Crocker's face. Women say this sort of thingcarelessly, with no wish to wound: but that makes it none theless hard to bear.

　　From the hall outside came faintly the sound of the telephone,then the measured tones of Bayliss answering it. Mr. Crockerreturned to his paper.

　　Bayliss entered.

　　"Lady Corstorphine desires to speak to you on the telephone,madam."Half-way to the door Mrs. Crocker paused, as if recallingsomething that had slipped her memory.

　　"Is Mr. James getting up, Bayliss?""I believe not, madam. I am informed by one of the house-maidswho passed his door a short time back that there were no sounds."Mrs. Crocker left the room. Bayliss, preparing to follow herexample, was arrested by an exclamation from the table.

　　"Say!"His master's voice.

　　"Say, Bayliss, come here a minute. Want to ask you something."The butler approached the table. It seemed to him that hisemployer was not looking quite himself this morning. There wassomething a trifle wild, a little haggard, about his expression.

　　He had remarked on it earlier in the morning in the Servants'

　　Hall.

　　As a matter of fact, Mr. Crocker's ailment was a perfectly simpleone. He was suffering from one of those acute spasms ofhome-sickness, which invariably racked him in the earlier Summermonths. Ever since his marriage five years previously and hissimultaneous removal from his native land he had been a chronicvictim to the complaint. The symptoms grew less acute in Winterand Spring, but from May onward he suffered severely.

　　Poets have dealt feelingly with the emotions of practically everyvariety except one. They have sung of Ruth, of Israel in bondage,of slaves pining for their native Africa, and of the miner'sdream of home. But the sorrows of the baseball bug, compelled byfate to live three thousand miles away from the Polo Grounds,have been neglected in song. Bingley Crocker was such a one, andin Summer his agonies were awful. He pined away in a countrywhere they said "Well played, sir!" when they meant "'at-a-boy!""Bayliss, do you play cricket?""I am a little past the age, sir. In my younger days . . .""Do you understand it?""Yes, sir. I frequently spend an afternoon at Lord's or the Ovalwhen there is a good match."Many who enjoyed a merely casual acquaintance with the butlerwould have looked on this as an astonishingly unexpectedrevelation of humanity in Bayliss, but Mr. Crocker was notsurprised. To him, from the very beginning, Bayliss had been aman and a brother who was always willing to suspend his duties inorder to answer questions dealing with the thousand and oneproblems which the social life of England presented. Mr.

　　Crocker's mind had adjusted itself with difficulty to theniceties of class distinction: and, while he had cured himself ofhis early tendency to address the butler as "Bill," he neverfailed to consult him as man to man in his moments of perplexity.

　　Bayliss was always eager to be of assistance. He liked Mr.

　　Crocker. True, his manner might have struck a more sensitive manthan his employer as a shade too closely resembling that of anindulgent father towards a son who was not quite right in thehead: but it had genuine affection in it.

　　Mr. Crocker picked up his paper and folded it back at thesporting page, pointing with a stubby forefinger.

　　"Well, what does all this mean? I've kept out of watching cricketsince I landed in England, but yesterday they got the poisonneedle to work and took me off to see Surrey play Kent at thatplace Lord's where you say you go sometimes.""I was there yesterday, sir. A very exciting game.""Exciting? How do you make that out? I sat in the bleachers allafternoon, waiting for something to break loose. Doesn't anythingever happen at cricket?"The butler winced a little, but managed to smile a tolerantsmile. This man, he reflected, was but an American and as suchmore to be pitied than censured. He endeavoured to explain.

　　"It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain.""Eh?""The wicket was sticky, sir.""Come again.""I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slowwas that the wicket--I should say the turf--was sticky--that isto say wet. Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket issticky, the batsmen are obliged to exercise a great deal ofcaution, as the stickiness of the wicket enables the bowlers tomake the ball turn more sharply in either direction as it strikesthe turf than when the wicket is not sticky.""That's it, is it?""Yes, sir.""Thanks for telling me.""Not at all, sir."Mr. Crocker pointed to the paper.

　　"Well, now, this seems to be the box-score of the game we sawyesterday. If you can make sense out of that, go to it."The passage on which his finger rested was headed "Final Score,"and ran as follows:

　　SURREYFirst InningsHayward, c Wooley, b Carr ....... 67Hobbs, run out ................... 0Hayes, st Huish, b Fielder ...... 12Ducat, b Fielder ................33Harrison, not out ............... 11Sandham, not out ................. 6Extras .......................... 10Total (for four wickets) ....... 139Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.

　　"What is it you wish me to explain, sir?""Why, the whole thing. What's it all about?""It's perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss, and took firstknock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward calledHobbs for a short run, but the latter was unable to get acrossand was thrown out by mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He wentout of his ground and was stumped. Ducat and Hayward made acapital stand considering the stickiness of the wicket, untilDucat was bowled by a good length off-break and Hayward caught atsecond slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham played outtime."Mr. Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.

　　"Yes!" he said. "Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I'dlike to have it once again, slowly. Start with these figures.

　　What does that sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward's name?""He made sixty-seven runs, sir.""Sixty-seven! In one game?""Yes, sir.""Why, Home-Run Baker couldn't do it!""I am not familiar with Mr. Baker, sir.""I suppose you've never seen a ball-game?""Ball-game, sir?""A baseball game?""Never, sir.""Then, Bill," said Mr. Crocker, reverting in his emotion to thebad habit of his early London days, "you haven't lived. Seehere!"Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr. Crockerhad managed to preserve during the opening stages of theinterview now definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly andhe snorted like a war-horse. He clutched the butler by the sleeveand drew him closer to the table, then began to move forks,spoons, cups, and even the contents of his plate about the clothwith an energy little short of feverish.

　　"Bayliss!""Sir?""Watch!" said Mr. Crocker, with the air of an excitable highpriest about to initiate a novice into the Mysteries.

　　He removed a roll from the basket.

　　"You see this roll? That's the home plate. This spoon is firstbase. Where I'm putting this cup is second. This piece of baconis third. There's your diamond for you. Very well, then. Theselumps of sugar are the infielders and the outfielders. Now we'reready. Batter up? He stands here. Catcher behind him. Umps behindcatcher.""Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?""Call him anything you like. It's part of the game. Now here'sthe box, where I've put this dab of marmalade, and here's thepitcher, winding up.""The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?""I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets pastme.""The box, then, is the bowler's wicket?""Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher'swinding up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Hereit comes, right in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaksfor first. Outfielder--this lump of sugar--boots it. Bonehead!

　　Batter touches second. Third? No! Get back! Can't be done. Playit safe. Stick around the sack, old pal. Second batter up.

　　Pitcher getting something on the ball now besides the cover.

　　Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter up. See himrub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He's good! He letstwo alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes aroundto second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home forone run. That's a game! Take it from me, Bill, that's a _game!_"Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himselfinto his lecture, Mr. Crocker sat down and refreshed himself withcold coffee.

　　"Quite an interesting game," said Bayliss. "But I find, now thatyou have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though Ihave always known it under another name. It is played a greatdeal in this country."Mr. Crocker started to his feet.

　　"It is? And I've been five years here without finding it out!

　　When's the next game scheduled?""It is known in England as Rounders, sir. Children play it with asoft ball and a racquet, and derive considerable enjoyment fromit. I had never heard of it before as a pastime for adults."Two shocked eyes stared into the butler's face.

　　"Children?" The word came in a whisper.

　　"A racquet?""Yes, sir.""You--you didn't say a soft ball?""Yes, sir."A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr. Crocker. He had lived fiveyears in England, but not till this moment had he realised to thefull how utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placedhim, bound and helpless, in a country where they called baseballRounders and played it with a soft ball.

　　He sank back into his chair, staring before him. And as he satthe wall seemed to melt and he was gazing upon a green field, inthe centre of which a man in a grey uniform was beginning aSalome dance. Watching this person with a cold and suspiciouseye, stood another uniformed man, holding poised above hisshoulder a sturdy club. Two Masked Marvels crouched behind him inattitudes of watchful waiting. On wooden seats all around sat avast multitude of shirt-sleeved spectators, and the air was fullof voices.

　　One voice detached itself from the din.

　　"Pea-nuts! Get y'r pea-nuts!"Something that was almost a sob shook Bingley Crocker's ampleframe. Bayliss the butler gazed down upon him with concern. Hewas sure the master was unwell.

　　The case of Mr. Bingley Crocker was one that would have providedan admirable "instance" for a preacher seeking to instil into animpecunious and sceptical flock the lesson that money does not ofnecessity bring with it happiness. And poetry has crystallisedhis position in the following stanza.

　　An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain.

　　Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.

　　Mr. Crocker had never lived in a thatched cottage, nor had hisrelations with the birds of his native land ever reached thestage of intimacy indicated by the poet; but substitute "LambsClub" for the former and "members" for the latter, and theparallel becomes complete.

　　Until the time of his second marriage Bingley Crocker had been anactor, a snapper-up of whatever small character-parts the godsprovided. He had an excellent disposition, no money, and one son,a young man of twenty-one. For forty-five years he had lived ahand-to-mouth existence in which his next meal had generally comeas a pleasant surprise: and then, on an Atlantic liner, he metthe widow of G. G. van Brunt, the sole heiress to that magnate'simmense fortune.

　　What Mrs. van Brunt could have seen in Bingley Crocker to causeher to single him out from all the world passes comprehension:

　　but the eccentricities of Cupid are commonplace. It were best toshun examination into first causes and stick to results. Theswift romance began and reached its climax in the ten days whichit took one of the smaller Atlantic liners to sail from Liverpoolto New York. Mr. Crocker was on board because he was returningwith a theatrical company from a failure in London, Mrs. vanBrunt because she had been told that the slow boats were thesteadiest. They began the voyage as strangers and ended it as anengaged couple--the affair being expedited, no doubt, by the factthat, even if it ever occurred to Bingley to resist the onslaughton his bachelor peace, he soon realised the futility of doing so,for the cramped conditions of ship-board intensified the alwaysoverwhelming effects of his future bride's determined nature.

　　The engagement was received in a widely differing spirit by theonly surviving blood-relations of the two principals. Jimmy, Mr.

　　Crocker's son, on being informed that his father had plighted histroth to the widow of a prominent millionaire, displayed theutmost gratification and enthusiasm, and at a little supper whichhe gave by way of farewell to a few of his newspaper comrades andwhich lasted till six in the morning, when it was broken up bythe flying wedge of waiters for which the selected restaurant isjustly famous, joyfully announced that work and he would fromthen on be total strangers. He alluded in feeling terms to theProvidence which watches over good young men and saves them fromthe blighting necessity of offering themselves in the flower oftheir golden youth as human sacrifices to the Moloch ofcapitalistic greed: and, having commiserated with his guests inthat a similar stroke of luck had not happened to each of them,advised them to drown their sorrows in drink. Which they did.

　　Far different was the attitude of Mrs. Crocker's sister, NestaPett. She entirely disapproved of the proposed match. At least,the fact that in her final interview with her sister shedescribed the bridegroom-to-be as a wretched mummer, a despicablefortune-hunter, a broken-down tramp, and a sneaking, graftingconfidence-trickster lends colour to the supposition that she wasnot a warm supporter of it. She agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs.

　　Crocker's suggestion that they should never speak to each otheragain as long as they lived: and it was immediately after thisthat the latter removed husband Bingley, step-son Jimmy, and allher other goods and chattels to London, where they had remainedever since. Whenever Mrs. Crocker spoke of America now, it was intones of the deepest dislike and contempt. Her friends wereEnglish, and every year more exclusively of England'saristocracy. She intended to become a leading figure in LondonSociety, and already her progress had been astonishing. She knewthe right people, lived in the right square, said the rightthings, and thought the right thoughts: and in the Spring of herthird year had succeeded in curing Bingley of his habit ofbeginning his remarks with the words "Say, lemme tell yasomething." Her progress, in short, was beginning to assume theaspect of a walk-over.

　　Against her complete contentment and satisfaction only one thingmilitated. That was the behaviour of her step-son, Jimmy.

　　It was of Jimmy that she spoke when, having hung the receiver onits hook, she returned to the breakfast-room. Bayliss hadsilently withdrawn, and Mr. Crocker was sitting in sombre silenceat the table.

　　"A most fortunate thing has happened, Bingley," she said. "It wasmost kind of dear Lady Corstorphine to ring me up. It seems thather nephew, Lord Percy Whipple, is back in England. He has beenin Ireland for the past three years, on the staff of the LordLieutenant, and only arrived in London yesterday afternoon. LadyCorstorphine has promised to arrange a meeting between him andJames. I particularly want them to be friends.""Eugenia," said Mr. Crocker in a hollow voice, "do you know theycall baseball Rounders over here, and children play it with asoft ball?""James is becoming a serious problem. It is absolutely necessarythat he should make friends with the right kind of young men.""And a racquet," said Mr. Crocker.

　　"Please listen to what I am saying, Bingley. I am talking aboutJames. There is a crude American strain in him which seems togrow worse instead of better. I was lunching with the Delafieldsat the Carlton yesterday, and there, only a few tables away, wasJames with an impossible young man in appalling clothes. It wasoutrageous that James should have been seen in public at all withsuch a person. The man had a broken nose and talked through it.

　　He was saying in a loud voice that made everybody turn roundsomething about his left-scissors hook--whatever that may havebeen. I discovered later that he was a low professional pugilistfrom New York--a man named Spike Dillon, I think Captain Wroxtonsaid. And Jimmy was giving him lunch--at the _Carlton!_"Mr. Crocker said nothing. Constant practice had made him an adeptat saying nothing when his wife was talking.

　　"James must be made to realise his responsibilities. I shall haveto speak to him. I was hearing only the other day of a mostdeserving man, extremely rich and lavishly generous in hiscontributions to the party funds, who was only given aknighthood, simply because he had a son who had behaved in amanner that could not possibly be overlooked. The present Courtis extraordinarily strict in its views. James cannot be toocareful. A certain amount of wildness in a young man is quiteproper in the best set, provided that he is wild in the rightcompany. Every one knows that young Lord Datchet was ejected fromthe Empire Music-Hall on Boat-Race night every year during hisresidence at Oxford University, but nobody minds. The familytreats it as a joke. But James has such low tastes. Professionalpugilists! I believe that many years ago it was not unfashionablefor young men in Society to be seen about with such persons, butthose days are over. I shall certainly speak to James. He cannotafford to call attention to himself in any way. Thatbreach-of-promise case of his three years ago, is, I hope andtrust, forgotten, but the slightest slip on his part might startthe papers talking about it again, and that would be fatal. Theeventual successor to a title must be quite as careful as--"It was not, as has been hinted above, the usual practice of Mr.

　　Crocker to interrupt his wife when she was speaking, but he didit now.

　　"Say!"Mrs. Crocker frowned.

　　"I wish, Bingley--and I have told you so often--that you wouldnot begin your sentences with the word 'Say'! It is such arevolting Americanism. Suppose some day when you are addressingthe House of Lords you should make a slip like that! The paperswould never let you hear the end of it."Mr. Crocker was swallowing convulsively, as if testing his larynxwith a view to speech. Like Saul of Tarsus, he had been strickendumb by the sudden bright light which his wife's words had causedto flash upon him. Frequently during his sojourn in London he hadwondered just why Eugenia had settled there in preference to herown country. It was not her wont to do things without an object,yet until this moment he had been unable to fathom her motives.

　　Even now it seemed almost incredible. And yet what meaning wouldher words have other than the monstrous one which had smitten himas a blackjack?

　　"Say--I mean, Eugenia--you don't want--you aren't trying--youaren't working to--you haven't any idea of trying to get them tomake me a Lord, have you?""It is what I have been working for all these years!""But--but why? Why? That's what I want to know. Why?"Mrs. Crocker's fine eyes glittered.

　　"I will tell you why, Bingley. Just before we were married I hada talk with my sister Nesta. She was insufferably offensive. Shereferred to you in terms which I shall never forgive. She affectedto look down on you, to think that I was marrying beneath me. SoI am going to make you an English peer and send Nesta a newspaperclipping of the Birthday Honours with your name in it, if I haveto keep working till I die! Now you know!"Silence fell. Mr. Crocker drank cold coffee. His wife stared withgleaming eyes into the glorious future.

　　"Do you mean that I shall have to stop on here till they make mea lord?" said Mr. Crocker limply.

　　"Yes.""Never go back to America?""Not till we have succeeded.""Oh Gee! Oh Gosh! Oh Hell!" said Mr. Crocker, bursting the bondsof years.

　　Mrs. Crocker though resolute, was not unkindly. She madeallowances for her husband's state of mind. She was willing topermit even American expletives during the sinking-in process ofher great idea, much as a broad-minded cowboy might listenindulgently to the squealing of a mustang during the brandingprocess. Docility and obedience would he demanded of him later,but not till the first agony had abated. She spoke soothingly tohim.

　　"I am glad we have had this talk, Bingley. It is best that youshould know. It will help you to realise your responsibilities.

　　And that brings me back to James. Thank goodness Lord PercyWhipple is in town. He is about James' age, and from what LadyCorstorphine tells me will be an ideal friend for him. Youunderstand who he is, of course? The second son of the Duke ofDevizes, the Premier's closest friend, the man who canpractically dictate the Birthday Honours. If James and Lord Percycan only form a close friendship, our battle will be as good aswon. It will mean everything. Lady Corstorphine has promised toarrange a meeting. In the meantime, I will speak to James andwarn him to be more careful."Mr. Crocker had produced a stump of pencil from his pocket andwas writing on the table-cloth.

　　Lord CrockerLord Bingley CrockerLord Crocker of CrockerThe Marquis of CrockerBaron CrockerBingley, first Viscount CrockerHe blanched as he read the frightful words. A sudden thought stunghim.

　　"Eugenia!""Well?""What will the boys at the Lambs say?""I am not interested," replied his wife, "in the boys at theLambs.""I thought you wouldn't be," said the future baron gloomily.