The crowd was already beginning to assemble. Vehicles and pedestrians were flocking in from twenty miles around. Hickory was a neighbouring village, only seven miles distant, but the rivalry was so keen that the local public-houses did no trade while the great match was in progress. It always had been so, and always would be. Even in the early forties Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory had become historical. Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch had actually graced the annual encounter in the Park. There was only one match a season; two would have been more than human endurance could have borne; and the Park, which generations of its noble owners had been very proud to lend for this nation-shaking function, was the only cricket-ground in the vicinity that could hope to accommodate the rival partisans. It might have been that once on a time the ’Varsity match had been played on other turf than Lord’s; but the Park was the only spot in England that had ever had the privilege of witnessing Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory on its velvet sward. Let kings depart and empires perish, but this always had been so and always would be! To appear at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory was not the lot of common men. Only the elect could hope to do so. To take wickets or make a score at this encounter was to become a classic in one’s lifetime. There were hoary veterans round about, whom the uninitiated might take to be mouldering mediocrities, but no--“see t’ owd gaffer theer? well, ’e wor a ’56 man; and t’ littlin theer across the rowad ’e wor ’59”--which being interpreted means that 1856 and 1859 were the dates of their distinction. Therefore do not let the young think, as unhappily they do just now, that they must write a book to become immortal. Why will not a few thousands of these seekers after fame, these budding novelists and early poets, take to cricket? For is it not more honourable, and certainly more glorious, to make a century at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and make half a shire shout your praise, than to translate Omar Kháyyám and become a nuisance to posterity? Presently I beheld a sight that nearly brought the tears into my eyes. The Optimist and the Pessimist were coming arm-in-arm across the grass. The lion lay down with the lamb at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. The Secretary walked alone with looks and words for none. He was so positively dangerous that the General Nuisance forbore to ask him what bowling we had got. Having changed, I was sallying forth from the pavilion in the possession of bat and ball for the purpose of “having a knock” when a sudden palpitation made the crowd vibrate. “’Ere’s Hickory! Good owd Hickory!”