Huggins spat upon his hands, took a reef in his leather belt, and lifted his bat again. The little underhand bowler came crouching up to the crease, and launched the new ball almost from his knees. Wide and wild it flew this time. But there was a sound of crashing timber; Huggins’s wicket scattered into space, stumps and bails whirling together half-way up the pitch. He had hit the wrong thing. ‘An’ now,’ wailed poor Tom Clemmer, ‘’tis as good as finished. Dan’l wunt ha’ no chaance. Jest as well declare, an’ ha’ done wi’ it. Th’ boys?—they’ll be all done in a hover, an’—’ ‘Well, an’ what about th’ Cap’n, Tom?’ It was the voice of the Captain himself, and we all turned to look. He was leaning comfortably against the tent pole, the very picture of an old, superannuated forecastle-hand. He wore his usual vast faded blue suit. A seaman’s cap with hard shiny peak gripped his bald head from the rear. His red face swam in joviality and perspiration. Tom regarded him with mingled respect and doubt. ‘Ye caan’t run, Maast’ Stall’ard.’ ‘Trew, Tom!’ ‘An’ ye ha’ant touched a crickut bat fer thirty year.’ ‘Trew agen,’ returned the Captain serenely. ‘Ha, hum! well! a good plucked-un ye be, anyways. Now then, Dickie!’ The first small boy set forth over the sunny stretch of grass that lay between the tent and the waiting team. Very small and insignificant he looked in his school-corduroys, and leg-pads that reached well-nigh up to his waist. His advent was greeted with ribaldry from all parts of the field. We heard Daniel Dray admonishing the boy as he came smiling up to the pitch. ‘Now, Dickie, doan’t ye dare run ’til I shouts to ye, an’ then run as if _He_ wur after ye. Hould your bat straight, ye young varmint! Now then, look hout! There! what did I tell ye?’ Dickie’s wicket was down, and Dickie himself was running back to the tent vastly relieved. ‘Out wi’ ye, Georgie Huggins! An’ do as well as your faather!’ cried Tom Clemmer encouragingly. ‘’Tis hover, an’ Dan’l’s got th’ play now. Oh, Dan’l, Dan’l! if only ’twur you an’ me!’ But, playing with the ingenuity as well as the courage of despair, young Daniel Dray now began to show his true mettle. Odd runs he refused, taking only even numbers, so that each time the bowling fell to his lot again. At the end of the over, he stole a desperate single with the same object in view. He reached home safe enough, but Georgie was run out. Boy Number Two had been disposed of at the cost of a gallant six. Following the same tactics, young Daniel eked out the remaining three boys with still more crafty skill. When at length old Stallwood, the last man, launched out into the sunlight to show the town what he remembered of cricket, the score had risen to forty-nine, and our spirits with it. We cheered him lustily as he went. ‘Wan more,’ quoth Tom Clemmer, ‘jest wan, an’ I’ll light me pipe. There be allers a chaance wi’ fifty. Lorsh! Look at th’ Cap’n!’