Without doubt he was an eccentric character. Up to that moment he had been fielding in his woollen muffler, his overcoat, and, last but not least, his wonderful top hat. These, however, he now doffed, and laid in a heap upon the ground. Their disappearance revealed the fact that he wore a tight-fitting jacket which was the same wonderful pattern in checks as his trousers. From the look of him, I certainly never supposed that he could bowl. My surprise was, therefore, all the greater when I discovered that he could. His action was peculiar. He went right up to the wicket, and stood quite still, delivering the ball with a curious flourish of the wrist. Its pace was amazing. It pitched a good two feet to the off, and broke right in--perhaps aided by the ground, though he certainly had found a spot. I was so astounded by the pace--which reminded me of the old stories told of Lillywhite; you could hear it "humming" in the air--that I never even moved my bat. It was that which saved me. As it was the bat was all but driven out of my hand. I told myself that on the arrival of a second edition I should have to go. Yet I did manage to stop the next four balls--how, I have not the faintest notion; but the sixth--for it seemed that, in those parts, they bowled six to the over--took my middle stump, breaking it clean off at the top. As I entered the tent the scorer cried out-- "What name?" "Tom Benyon," replied the bowler. Mr. Hedges, who was seated at the scorer's side, brought down his fist upon the trestle-table with a bang. "I knew it was! I knowed him all along!" Mr. Hedges was in a state of odd excitement. "That chap who bowled you ain't a man, sir--he's a ghost." "He manages to put a good deal of pace on the ball for a ghost," I answered. "And so he ought to. Did you hear what name he said? He said Tom Benyon! There wasn't a better cricketer in all these parts than Tom Benyon used to be. He played up in Lunnon more than once, I know, and got well paid for playing too. But he always was a queer sort, was Tom. I knew him well. I saw him buried. And if it is him, and not his ghost, he ain't grown a day older these twenty years, he ain't." I laughed. I supposed the old gentleman was jesting. But not a bit of it. When our second man had gone to the wicket Mr. Sapsworth drew me aside. "I don't like the look of this," he said. "Nor I," I answered, supposing he referred to Mr. Benyon's bowling. "He'll bring down our stumps like ninepins." "It isn't that. It--it's the man," he said. "Do you mean the ghost?" I asked jokingly. "It's easy to laugh. But----" Mr. Sapsworth paused. I could see he was ashamed of himself, yet had his suspicions none the less. "I thought I had seen him before, and I had. It _is_ Tom Benyon." "He says he is Tom Benyon, and I suppose he should know best." "Yes." Mr. Sapsworth fidgeted. "But Tom Benyon's been dead these twenty years." "Dead!" I cried, and laughed. "He showed himself too much alive for me, at any rate."