“No, very much the contrary. I have seen nothing like this for years. I like it—the enthusiasm is infectious. As for the villagers, I wouldn’t change them for the world. That dear old woman, Mrs. Parish—! The row of granfers on the bench—! Two of the darlings are wearing smocks. Your professor would change all that; give him a free hand, and he would people the countryside with men and women cut to pattern, all aping their betters, and all discontented.” “Why do you call him my professor?” “He nearly got you. I suppose he belongs to Miss Hamlin.” “Not yet, I fancy.” Lionel replied stiffly. “Ah, well, she will be foolish, if she lets him slip through her fingers. Mr. Moxon and I have agreed to disagree, but I like him. He will make his mark. What are they cheering for?” “Fishpingle is out. Now we may have some fun. The village slogger takes his place.” The slogger rolled out of the marquee, disdaining pads or gloves. Nether-Applewhite cheered, anticipating much leather-hunting. “You hit ’un, Joe!”—“Stretch their legs for ’un, lad!”—“Ah-h-h! Now for a bit o’ sport.” Encouraged by these remarks, the object of them strode to his wicket and took block. Lionel explained what was needed: “We haven’t time to finish the match. Hamlin may declare our innings closed if we touch the double century. Then our great chance is to get ’em all out before time is called.” “Where do we stand now?” “We’ve made about a hundred and ninety.” The slogger brandished the willow. Joel hurtled forward. A deep groan came from the bench of granfers as a judicious “yorker” knocked two stumps out of the ground. The discomfited batsman glared at a mocking field. “I warn’t ready,” he shouted. “You hear me?” “Tut, tut!” said the Squire. “They can hear you in Salisbury, my man. Better luck next time.” One of the Mucklow brethren took his place. Joel delivered a terrific ball, which seemed to whiz straight at the batsman’s head. Mucklow bobbed; the bails flew. Long-Baddeley howled with joy. Adam Mucklow scratched his head. He was assured by Point that it was still on his shoulders. Sadly, sighing deeply, he went his weary way. Lord Fordingbridge said jovially: “Joel, if you do the hat trick, order one of the best at my expense.” George Mucklow advanced. “Don’t ’ee be afeared, Garge!” “I ain’t afeared,” declared George, valiantly; but he was. His knees were as wax. “No flowers at his funeral,” said the wit of Long-Baddeley. “Keep your eye on the ball,” counselled the Parson. Joel delivered the third ball. The unhappy George shut both eyes and flinched. A derisive roar went up, so did the bails. George gazed about him. “You be out,” said the wicket-keeper. “So I be. ’Tis sartin I didn’t know it. I can bowl a bit, but this ain’t cricket, ’tis murder.” He vanished.