“No,” said a spectator, who was perspiring freely in spite of the fact that he wore a halo of cabbage-leaves under his straw hat. “They are putting on young Cox.” “Time they did,” said Mr. Dodson. For a moment a Titanic struggle was waged in the bosom of the philosopher. He could not forbear to pause a moment to watch how his friend Joe Cox fared in his hour of trial, yet even before he beheld him deliver his first ball, he bent his neck again to the stern yoke of duty. Hurriedly he went on his way for the brandy. As he returned bearing this stimulant, he stayed again for an instant to inquire of his informant of the cabbage-leaves, how young Cox was bowling? “Can’t bowl for nuts,” said the gentleman of the cabbage-leaves. “Gunn has just hit him out of the ground. I could bowl better myself.” It was with a sinking heart that the philosopher handed the brandy to William Jordan, who, however, could not be induced to taste it. “How are you feeling, old boy?” said Mr. Dodson; and he added eagerly, “Joe Cox is bowling. I wish he would get a wicket.” “M-my m-mind is now quite clear,” said his strange companion. “P-please l-leave me to lie here. I would have you join your friends who are so--so active and powerful and high-hearted. Go to look at--at the cricket game, I entreat you. Whenever we go forth together I make you unhappy. I--I spoil your day. I would have you leave me altogether, kind and honest friend; I am no fit comrade for such as you. I--I begin to understand that I am one of other clay.” After Mr. James Dodson had turned away his face in order that he might register the enigmatic aside, “I am afraid it is quite true that the poor cove is absolutely balmy,” he said to the pallid figure in a voice of cheerful kindness, “Rot! Rubbish! You are talking through your hat. It is only in fun that I call you Luney. I tell you candidly, my son, that if I could speak Greek like a native, the same as you do, I would see a chap like James Dodson d----d before I would even nod to him in the street.” “You cannot deceive me, Jimmy,” said William Jordan, with a forlorn smile. “Fate has not made me the equal of you and your friends. I--I b-begin now to understand that I am one of other mould and texture. All these myriads of street-persons whose loud voices are all around me, whose seed is as profuse as the leaves of the forest, have received some high gift from Fate which has been withheld from me. I entreat you to leave me, good friend; such as I can only make you contemptuous; I would have you consort with your kind.” It was not, however, at the behest of William Jordan that his mentor left him, but in obedience to a mighty roar that arose from twenty thousand parched throats. “It is a wicket, I’m certain,” cried the philosopher, with an excitement of which few would have suspected him to be capable. “Who’s out?” he demanded, of the nearest group of spectators. “Gunn.” “How?” “Caught at the wicket.” “Bowler?” “Young Cox.”