Now the honour was so stupendous that had been conferred upon me, that it was more than a young and ambitious man with his name to make could realize at first. It was beyond my most highly-tinted dreams that I should be singled out to go in first with the Captain in my first Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Why should I, of all the talented men our team possessed, be chosen for this distinction? Was there not the Humourist, with his dauntless “never-saw-such-bowling-in-my-life air”; the Pessimist, who had played for the county twice this season; the Ancient, with all the weight of his accumulated wisdom, his guile, and his experience; the Worry, who if allowed to stay ten minutes, neither men nor angels could remove; the General Nuisance, too, who must have been an almost superhuman bat to be allowed to play at all? It was a moment of my life when I said with all becoming modesty: “Thanks, old chap,” and proceeded to put on my pads with hands that trembled. “First wicket, Ancient,” said the Captain, writing down the order. It was wonderful how merry the room had suddenly become: the buzz of tongues, the whistling of the music of the music hall, the Humourist working at his pun, the General Nuisance veiling his satisfaction in gin and ginger beer, all testified that cricket was a noble sport, and that life was really excellent. “I say, you men,” said the Captain, “remember that our game’s to keep in. No risks, mind; no hurry for runs, you know. We haven’t got a bit of bowling, and somebody’s told ’em so.” I was in the act of testing the handle of my bat, when I recollected with a pang that I was minus my Authentics. What should I do? William had not appeared with its substitute, yet in a couple of minutes I should be going in to bat on perhaps the biggest occasion of my career. Heaven knew I was horribly nervous as it was, so nervous, that when I thought of marching out to that wicket, before that crowd, to face that bowling, I began to desire a gentle death and a quiet funeral. It was now five minutes past eleven, and still that confounded William had not come! What _should_ I do? The more I thought of the Magdalen, the Winchester, and the M.C.C., the more impossible they became. “Ready?” said the Captain. “Ye--es,” said I; “q--quite ready.” “Hickory aren’t out yet,” said the kind-hearted Optimist, looking through the window. “’Wonder why they don’t hurry,” said the General Nuisance; “I can see that Dimsdale’s positively trembling to get at ’em. Besides, the umpires have been out quite five minutes.” “They’re funking us,” said the Humourist. Ah, these humourists, what lion hearts they’ve got! “Perhaps they are being photographed,” some enlightened mind suggested. The Worry opened the door, although I vainly assured him that there really was no hurry, to have a look at what Hickory were up to. “Why,” said he breathlessly, “they’re playing two wicket-keepers.”