Three times on his way to the pitch he had stopped, turned, and waved his cap in acknowledgment of the ovation given him. And now he was greeting the Stavishamites each by name, and shaking hands with the wicket-keeper. He got to the crease at last and grounded his bat. The next moment the whole field had left their places and run for the tent, leaving the Captain standing alone and amazed at his wicket. ‘’A doan’t knaw ’a be hout,’ said Tom. ‘D’ ye onnerstand? ’A never heerd th’ bawler shout, an’ never seed th’ ball acomin’. Belike ’a thinks they be all gone fer a drink, to hearten ’em at the sight o’ sech a crickutter!’ And being free for a time, I took upon myself the task of walking out to the Captain, and breaking the news to him as gently as I could. It was now Windlecombe’s turn to take the field, and Tom Clemmer led out his team with a good heart, in spite of its tail of juveniles. Daniel Dray and the Rev. Mr. Weaverly were our first, indeed our only bowlers. One of the first batsmen for Stavisham was Daniel’s ancient foe, the grocer; and we watched the beginning of play with breathless interest, for we knew Daniel would aim to kill. He grubbed savagely in the sawdust, then sent the first ball hurtling down the pitch. The old men were still upon the benches outside, and in that quarter sympathy with Windlecombe was as staunch as ever. But in the scoring tent I sat amidst enemies now. The townsmen crowded behind me, a humorously sarcastic crew. ‘Fifty to beat? My ould Aunt Mary! D’ ye reckon we’ll do it, Bill?’ ‘Dunno. ’Tis ser’ous fer Stavisham. Only eleven on us, there be. Likely March wunt do ’t off his own bat—no, not ’arf!’ ‘That there tinker-cove’s agoin’ to bowl fust. There ’ee goos! Wot a —’ The rest was drowned in a thunderclap of shouting. There was a general stampede among the spectators. For the grocer had driven Daniel’s first ball clean into the tent. It was a bad beginning for Windlecombe, and bad rapidly changed to worse. Young Daniel bowled steadily and coolly for the first over, in spite of continuous punishment; but thereafter he lost first his temper, and then his head. The smiling grocer played him to all points of the compass; and the more the grocer smiled, the more wildly erratic Daniel’s bowling grew. As for the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, he could do no more than send meek, ingenuous balls trundling diffidently up the pitch; and he was skied with heartrending regularity. The batsmen kept continually running. The little tent seemed to belly out on all sides with the cheering, as a sail with wind. ‘Thirty up!’ ‘Thirty fer nauthin’!’ ‘Thirty-one! And another’! Thirty-two! Garn, March! Wot a wazegoose! Thirty—’ ‘Five! ’Ooray!’