Consumption kept the wicket, and caught or stumped cruel numbers of promising players before they were well set; Fever stood at mid-on; Cancer fielded deep and fielded sure; Heart Disease was at point; Apoplexy at cover-point; and all the other fell things that rob man of life stood round--a seething, twisting mob of black and scarlet devils leapt out of a nightmare or a picture by Salvator Rosa. Few batsmen were clean bowled, but many were run out and still more caught. Now and then, however, Death found his way to the wicket after a long innings, and sometimes an old man who had long defied the hungry field went down to the Grey Bowler himself. If a child came in, Croup and Scarlet Fever, and Whooping-Cough and Measles crept up to the wicket. Diphtheria was a deadly customer to the children, and at such times Death made an Englishman feel angry, for he bowled harder at the little ones than their stouter elders. But it has been pretty generally admitted, I believe, that Death, whatever else he may be, is no sportsman. Despite their claws and fangs, their million eyes and million hands, the red fielders and the black missed a good few chances, whereat Death grinned. His average never troubled him; he knew it must come out well enough in the long run. Often a batsman profited not a little when thus let off, and many an innings was a treat to watch in its patience and skill, while others, on the contrary--most of them, in fact--wearied the spectator by their feebleness. Sometimes a ghostly roar greeted the fall of a wicket; usually great indifference marked the event; not seldom the onlookers manifested absolute relief. Full of monstrous surprises is this game. The weakling defies Death for over after over, and gets the ball past all the claws and long arms to the boundary; the stout and brawny giant, who looks good for a century, tumbles pitifully into the first trap, and puts up a ball weakly to Rheumatic Fever or Pneumonia, as though he had forgotten that such fielders existed for him. The Recording Angels suffered me to glance over some score-sheets, and I found them very interesting and astonishing reading; for in the Game of Life, unlike most games, it is not the spectator who can best judge of a man’s innings. It needs a recorder possessed of power more than human to score correctly. I found, for instance, that not a few batsmen who had played a very showy innings and kept up their wickets well, and afforded the crowd plenty of entertainment, had in reality added little or nothing to the Score of the World. Of course, in the Game of Life every ball counts; but the peculiarity of it is that a man may put on runs against himself. Every stroke is recorded in one of the score-books. There are two, but these never tally.