"Pity they don't make these things fasten with springs instead of straps," he observed, by way of genial conversation. Oh, how we chafed and fumed! "_Will_ you look sharp, if you're going to play at all?" howls our captain. "All _right_, old chap; I can't be quicker than I am; where are the gloves?" The gloves are brought like lightning, but not like lightning put on. No, the india-rubber gauntlets must needs be drawn with the greatest care and deliberation over his fingers, and even then require a good deal of shifting to render them comfortable. Then he was actually (I believe) going to take them off in order to roll up his shirt sleeves, had not two of us performed that office for him with a rapidity which astonished him. "Upon my word, this is too bad," says our captain, flinging down the bat he was holding, and stamping with vexation. "We might as well give the whole thing up!" "I'm awfully sorry," drawled Ned, in an injured tone; "but how could I help it? I'm ready now." "Ready! I should hope you were. Off you cut now; it only wants five minutes to the time." He starts to go, but turns before he has well left us, and says-- "Oh, I say, Jim, lend us your bat, will you? This one is sprung, and one of the--" "Here you are," we shout, running to him with a dozen bats at once--"only look sharp." "I only want one," he says. "Let me see this; no, this will do. Thanks, old man," and off he saunters again. The other side is lying comfortably on the grass, very well satisfied at the delay which every moment adds to their chance of victory. What centuries Ned appears to be taking in strolling up to the wickets! "I wish I was behind him with a red-hot poker," says one; "I'd make him trot!" "Not a bit of it," growls our captain; "Ned would want more than that to start him." Look at him now, getting "middle" as if he'd the whole afternoon before him! And that done, he slowly and deliberately taps the end of his bat on the place till we almost yell with rage. "It's no use now!" groans our captain in absolute despair; and so, indeed, we and our smiling adversaries all thought. "Play!" cries the bowler. "Wait a bit," says the aggravating Ned, dipping his hands in the sawdust! "now!" The ball comes at last, and Ned lets fly. It is a grand hit; the ball comes whizzing right past where we stand, and with delight as great as our previous agony we cheer till we are hoarse. Three runs are added to our score, and now we only want one more to equal our opponents, and two to win; but we shall never do it in the time, unless fortune favours us strangely. For see, it is "over," and the fielders will consume half of the remaining two minutes in changing their position. Then again "play" is called. Would you believe it? Ned calls out for "middle" again at the new wicket, and repeats the same pottering operation when he has got it. "Well, if ever _I_ saw--"