It is curious how sometimes in cricket the same thing occurs to two people at the same time. While I was inwardly speculating on the result of this change of position, Steel appeared to become aware of the same necessity, for I saw him behind the batsman's back silently motioning "mid-wicket on" to stand farther back, and "mid on" to come round to a "square" position. This manoeuvre, however, did not escape the wily Driver, who sent his next ball to leg, and the next to the identical spot "mid-wicket on" had just quitted. Still, Steel motioned to them to remain in their new posts. He knew well enough that if a man has a habit of hitting in any one direction, however studiously he tries to avoid the place. Nature will sooner or later assert herself, and the ball will fly where it has been wont to fly. So it was in this case. He could _not_ resist an impulse to lift one specially tempting ball in the direction of his old haunt, and sure enough in so doing he sent it clean into "long on's" hands, and with his own innings ended, to our great relief, the innings of his side, for a total score of 174, of which he had contributed quite the odd 74. It was a good round score to overtake, and things did not promise cheerfully for us at the commencement of our innings. The Westfield men were happy in possessing two swift bowlers, who made havoc of the first two or three on our side who presented themselves. I was one of these. When I started for the wickets, armed with pads and gloves and bat, I did not feel happy; still, I was in hopes I might at least succeed in "breaking my duck's egg," which was more than could be said for either of my predecessors. I felt rather important as I requested the umpire to give me "middle," and hammered the mark a little with my bat. Still, my feet fidgeted; there was a sort of "cobwebby" feeling on my face, and a tickling sensation in the small of my back, as I stood ready for my first ball, which convinced me I was by no means at home in my new position. "Play!" cries the umpire. The bowler starts to run, with arm extended. He makes a sort of curve round the wicket, and balances himself on one foot as he discharges his ball. It comes like lightning, right on to my bat, twisting it in my grasp, and then is snatched up in an instant by "point," who tosses it to the wicket-keeper, who returns it to the bowler. All this is very alarming. Here are eleven men banded together with the one object of putting me out, and they are all so quiet and determined about it that I feel like a guilty thing as I stand there to defend my wicket. The bowler starts again for his sinuous run, and again the ball whizzes from his hand. I lift my bat in an attempt to strike it; it slips under it; there is a little "click" behind my back, and then the ball flies aloft, and I discover that my services at the wicket are no longer required.