On the day of the match they seemed in larger numbers than usual, and the top of the fence was covered with urchins, who retained their position of vantage as though the law of gravitation were no concern of theirs, keeping up a shrill chorus as Winchester went out for a moderate score. With the odds all in our favor we went in to bat, Grubbs, the captain, and I leading off. The first ball was wide, but to feel the play of my muscles I took a perfunctory swing at it with my bat. The effect was extraordinary.... The crowd of Cockney youngsters raised a volume of sound as if my bat had been a baton and they a chorus. "Gow it, Pest!" "That's the style, Gloomy!" "Troy t' other hend, Bluntnose!" "Gee, he's got odd socks on!" "Nah then, Spiderlegs!" (The blunt nose and the legs I admit to, but the accusation of odd socks was pure malice.) The next ball, with no twist at all, bowled me clean, and I walked off the field to the tune of high-pitched shrieks of delight, and with a face that flushed a dark red. My place was taken by Smith tertius (or quartus), whose appearance caused an even greater furore than mine. "'Ooray for Bones!" greeted the lanky youth as he emerged--"'im as his the loife of the school!" (He was the most morose of boys.) "'I, Bones, 'oo did you crib from this time, eh?" (A subtle allusion to an ancient offense which had almost earned him expulsion.) The first ball came for Smith with an inviting hop. He watched it--went to strike at it--changed his mind--reconsidered his decision, and swung at the air as the ball passed over the bails by an inch, a feat which seemed to gratify our enemies on the fence immensely. "Nah then, Bones, non o' that there contortionizing!" "'It the ball, Bones; don't miss it!" And he did--a miserable little pop into the air; the chap in the slips didn't have to move a foot to gather it in. Mr. Smith then added his proof that Shakespeare was right when he said in this world we have our exits and our entrances. The next six batters went out for a score of eleven, bowled clean by the most intimate volume of abusive chaff ever endured by a cricket team. Skeletons were not only being taken from their closets, but paraded brazenly before the eyes of the world. The secret history of Westminster was screamed from the fence-tops. It was after the loss of our eighth wicket that Grubbs and I, who had stolen round by the street, stalked and discovered their ringleader. "That's him," said the captain hoarsely--the situation was too tense to permit of the niceties of grammar. I followed the line of his accusing finger--and gasped. There was no mistaking those gray twinkling eyes, although they were almost hidden behind a huge bandage, presumably for mumps. He was dressed in a rough coster suit, with a villainous cap on one side of his head and a bandit's red kerchief about his neck. "It _is_ him," I said dramatically. "I thought so," said Grubbs, and cleared his throat. "Norman," he cried. "Kid--Norman."