After standing two hours in that broiling heat, and as he was growing somewhat dizzy, owing to the effects of that concentrated fireball upon the back of his neck, the players trooped off the field of play in search of refreshment, whereupon Mr. Dodson solemnly instructed him to sit on an adjacent mound of withered grass to await his own return, assuring him “that he was not half smart enough to forage for himself at the Oval on August Bank Holiday.” In the course of half-an-hour Mr. Dodson did return, bearing two corkless bottles covered with oozing white froth, and four substantial and extremely indigestible-looking pork pies. “Catch hold,” said Mr. Dodson, handing Mr. William Jordan, Junior, his share of these delicacies. “The pies are topping, ain’t they?” said Mr. Dodson, after his teeth had met therein with immense satisfaction to themselves. Mr. Dodson then applied his mouth to the neck of a bottle. “There is nothing in this world,” said Mr. Dodson, after having sucked an immoderate quantity of froth, “whatever there may be in the next, to compare with a bottle of Bass.” Mr. Dodson returned with renewed vigour to the pork pies. “Buck up, Luney,” he said, as he masticated the last succulent morsel. “The players will be out again in five minutes. Why, man, what the dickens are you up to! Your Bass is all over the grass, and your pies are underneath it. Luney, you idiot!--’pon my word, I do believe the wretched lunatic has fainted.” Mr. Dodson’s diagnosis of his friend’s condition proved to be a correct one. He had to lay him upon his back and to obtain water before the eyes could be induced to re-open, and the blood to return to the hollow cheeks. Play had begun, Mr. Dodson was hot and irritable, and he was vowing freely that if he valued his self-respect he must break himself of the habit of dragging round this hopeless subject to acquaint it with “life”; yet in spite of all this, when the young man at last opened his eyes, his mentor said, quite kindly, “Was it the heat, old boy?” “Yes--the heat,” said William Jordan faintly. Mr. Dodson conducted his friend to the shade that was afforded by the back of an immense stand, upon which several thousands of human beings--wedged as tightly together as dried figs in a box--braved the broiling heat of the airless afternoon, craning and tiptoeing to witness a trial of skill of a curiously inconsequent and macabre kind, with whose niceties the vast majority were very imperfectly acquainted. “You will be all right here, old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, propping up his friend, and taking off his own coat to form a pillow for his head. “You will be nice and cool here. Lie quite still, and I will get you a drop of brandy.” As Mr. Dodson made his way through the crowd to an awning, upon which was displayed the word “Refreshments,” there was a demonstration of approval from many thousands of pairs of hands. “What’s up?” demanded Mr. Dodson, as he passed along. “Is Gunn out?”