"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to offer your lordship a cover at my table—poor country fare, I fear, but such as it is, freely at your lordship’s disposal." "’Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not permit us to accept of your hospitality.—Ah! I perceive the next batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you’re as keen a sportsman as I am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game." Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment’s irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two, gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away sucking it. The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than forty-five. "Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin. "I’ll take you, sir, though ’tis a risk. Who’s our next man?" "’Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake," said my lord. "What’s the lad’s name, gaffer?" "’Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o’ baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa’son we calls un mostly." "A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as he bowls?" "Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a deal o’ growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But there, my lord, he as can’t do what he would must do what he can, as you med say." "Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, ’tis a pretty lad. Gi’ un a cheer, souls." "Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire’s comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say." "True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o’ Squire, though you med n’t think it. Well!" But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new batsman’s honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the bowler.