She then superintended the unlading of the coach roof of its pile of brown and battered cricket bags, whilst the crowd pressed nearer to the wheels and evinced the liveliest concern as to “which is A. H.? And who’s the tall chap? And who’s the Parson? And don’t he look a funny little cuss? And who’s the very tall chap? ’Im wi’ the big ’ead? H. C. o’ course. And who’s the lamp-post? And that theer fleshy bloke who’d got three boys to carry his bag, a fourth to carry his hat, and a fifth his newspaper, must be Carteret, because it said in the _Daily Chronicle_ that he was the fattest short-slip in England and took life easily.” Of such are fame’s penalties! The young person in brown holland having made it her business to see that the bags were bundled down with the necessary degree of violence, said: “I think you men had better go and change _immediately_. I’ll have a look at the wicket.” She swung down from the step before any of the men below could lend a hand, and, while the whole eleven moved towards the pavilion with their luggage, the young person in brown holland made her way through the throng with the confidence of a duchess at a charity bazaar, and strode across the grass without the least suspicion of the Meredithian “swim.” And it was quite a coincidence that the Ancient and myself should choose a spot as near the wicket as the unwritten laws allowed, for the purpose of having a little practice. The ground-man was lingering over the last touches to his masterpiece when the young person in brown holland actually set foot on the sacred earth that the general public is not even permitted to approach. The face of the ground-man was well worth looking at. When the feelings of a great artist are outraged it is a very painful sight. Alas, poor Wiggles! the agony of his countenance no pen could depict. He lifted up his head and emitted a slow-drawn growl. This had no effect whatever. Indeed, an instant later, this most audacious individual had the incredible effrontery to bring down a pretty solid brown boot, by no means of the “little mice” type either, twice upon the pitch itself. It was more than a merely human ground-man could endure. “Begging pardon, miss,” said he, “but are you aware, miss, that this here is a--a _wicket_?” “Well, my dear man,” said the person thus addressed, “do you suppose I thought it was a bunker?”