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man who has really been "out in South Africa".
Barchard is a fair-haired young gentleman farmer.
When the parson suggests that "it must have been
pretty tough work out there", he replies that he is
thundering glad to be back among his fruit trees
again, and this, apparently, is about all he has to
say about the Boer War.

But when the meal was drawing to an end and I
had finished my helping of cold cherry-tart, and the
barman began to circulate with a wooden platter for
collecting the half-crowns, I became agonizingly
aware that I had come to the match without any
money. I was getting into a panic while the plate
came clinking along the table, but quiet Jack Bar-
chard unconsciously saved the situation by putting
down five shillings and saying, "All right, old chap,
Til stump up for both." Mumbling, "Oh, that's jolly
decent of you," I wished I could have followed him
up a hill in a "forlorn hope".. . . He told me, later
on, that he never set eyes on a Boer the whole time
he was in South Africa,

The clock struck three, and the Reverend Yalclen's
leg-stump had just been knocked out of the ground
by a vicious yorker from Frank Peckham. "Hundred
and seventeen. Five. Nought/' shouted the Butley
scorer, popping his head out of the little flat-roofed
shanty which was known as "the pavilion". The
battered tin number-plates were rattled on to their
nails on the scoring-board by a zealous young hobble-
dehoy who had undertaken the job for the day.

"Wodger say last man made?" he bawled, though
the scorer was only a few feet away from him.

"Last man, Blob."