"Now, Bob Sapsworth, prepare to be shaved!" The ball went from his hand like lightning. Mr. Sapsworth yelled. Mr. Benyon sent down his second ball--whack! not against the bat, but, I should say, as nearly as possible against the same portion of Mr. Sapsworth's frame which it had struck before. Any cricketer might have been demoralised after receiving two such blows, but he would at least have tried to get out of the way of the ball instead of in it. Mr. Sapsworth placed his person exactly where the ball might be expected to come, and, for once in a way, expectation was realised--it did come. The third, fourth, and fifth balls found an exactly similar billet, and the sixth not only knocked his bat out of his trembling hands, but all three of his stumps clean out of the ground. "I said I'd shave you, Bobby!" shouted Mr. Benyon, as the victim went limping from the place of execution. "Next man in," I said. "I ain't going in," courteously rejoined the player whose turn it was to follow. I was about to ask him why, when I was saved the trouble by Mr. Benyon. "Jack Hawthorn!" Oddly enough, the man's name was Hawthorn, though how Mr. Benyon came to know that he was next man in is more than I can say. Mr. Hawthorn was a huge fellow quite six feet high; but at the sound of Mr. Benyon's voice he rose, docile as a child. "I'm waiting for you." Without pads Mr. Hawthorn went striding across the turf, content to use the bat which Mr. Sapsworth had left lying on the ground. That hero came limping into the tent. "It's a ghost," he said. I could not but feel that the fellow was something of a cur. To this feeling I gave expression. "Ghost or no ghost, rather than let him pound me all over the body with the ball, I would have made one try to hit at it. And you told me that you were an all-round player." No doubt the man must have been suffering considerable pain, but I was too much annoyed at his cowardice to feel for him. Besides, the whole thing was so preposterous. Undoubtedly, as a trundler Mr. Benyon was superb. I have no hesitation in saying that I do not remember to have seen finer bowling than his on any ground in England. He combined two things which, so far as I am aware, are not to be found together in any living player--pace _and_ break. But it was not his bowling, fine as it was, which promised to work our ruin, so much as the absurd belief entertained by the members of the team that he--check trousers and all--was a ghost. An idea came into my head. I resolved that I would ask him, point-blank, in the face of all the people, if he was a ghost. If his answers did not satisfy the doubters nothing would. The opportunity occurred just as he was about to begin his following over. Moving from the tent, I advanced towards the wickets. "Excuse me, Mr. Benyon, but before you commence to bowl might I speak to you a word?"