The Ancient and I agreed that this was an achievement. For a member of the general public to retort effectually on a real live ground-man was as great a feat as to look at the Chinese Emperor. The face of Wiggles was a study. Meanwhile, the lady having sufficiently tried the adamantine surface with her boot, bent down and pressed on it with her thumb. A feather would have slain the miserable Wiggles at that moment. Was it possible that any human creature, let alone the sex, could presume to test, and criticise, and doubt his masterpiece in this way! But worse was coming. Apparently the young person in brown holland was determined to satisfy herself in regard to every detail. “Ground-man,” she said, “has this turf any tendency to crumble?” “No, it ain’t,” said the ground-man savagely. Having laid her doubts in this direction, she proceeded to view the wicket lengthwise. Setting her alert tanned face in a precise line with the stumps, she said:-- “Ground-man, are you sure that these sticks are _quite_ plumb!” “If they ain’t it’s the fust time i’ thirty yeer.” “But surely the leg peg your end wants pulling out a bit. That’ll do. It’s all right now.” When the utterly demoralised Wiggles discovered that he had unconsciously obeyed the behests of the young person in brown holland, I never saw a man who more regretted his own inability to kick himself. “Well, ground-man,” she said slowly and reflectively, “I think this wicket is good enough for a Test Match. Here’s a shilling for you.” The hesitation of Wiggles was really painful. A shilling is a shilling always, but how could a self-respecting ground-man accept one in these humiliating circumstances? His views on political economy, however, reconciled his outraged feelings to this added insult. He took the shilling with a defiant air. “And, ground-man,” she said, “mind that I tip you for every individual century that is got for Hickory to-day.” “Thank you kindly, miss,” said Wiggles, with a groan. He was Little Clumpton to the marrow. The poor wretch cast a despairing glance at the Ancient and myself, while we practised in the most assiduous manner. Suddenly a peal of laughter came from the young person in brown holland. It seemed that the sight-board in front of a dark fringe of trees behind the bowler’s arm had attracted her polite attention. “Charlie’s arm’ll be over that,” she cried delightedly. “We’ll put him on that end.” “Ancient,” said I, “do you hear what that--that girl’s saying? Why doesn’t that idiot Wiggles order her off the field? If she stops there much longer we’re a beaten team.” Just then she turned her attention to us engaged in practice. Now the sight of this--this person who was so busily occupied in laying traps and pitfalls for Little Clumpton’s overthrow enraged me to that degree that I determined to get rid of her by uncompromising methods. She stood in the exact line of my crack to cover.