The terrific H. C. Trentham was now ready to deal destruction. Anxiously had I observed the placing of the field, the most noticeable items of which were the wicket-keeper standing a dozen yards behind the sticks, and the four men in the slips still deeper, with their hands on their thighs, and their noses on a level with the bails. The bowler measured his distance, and scratched up the turf at his starting-point. The batsman set himself. The bowler walked a couple of yards, then broke into a trot, that gradually grew into a run, and when he arrived at the crease, with the velocity of a locomotive he hurled the ball from his hand, and his body after it, almost faster than the eye could follow. The Captain fairly dug his bat into his block-hole, and the ball came back straight down the pitch, whizzing and rotating in half-circles. It was a most determined and barefaced attempt to “york” the captain, and the bowler smiled all over his countenance in a very winning manner. The Captain set himself again. The next ball was of perfect length, a few inches on the off, and turned in suddenly, with the ungenerous idea of hitting the top of the off stump; but the Captain, watching it all the way, met it very warily, his right leg well against his bat, and blocked it gently back again to the bowler. The third had a very similar design, but happening to be pitched a little farther up, it came back as though propelled from a gun. The bowler neatly picked it up one hand, and drew the first cheer from the crowd. The fourth was full of guile. It was a trifle on the short side, wide of the off stump, and instead of turning in, was going away with the bowler’s arm. The Captain drew himself erect, held up his bat, and never made the least attempt to play it. The bowler smiled more winningly than ever. A London critic unburdened his mind by shouting “Nottingham!” The fifth was wickedness itself. The bowler covered his fifteen yards of run with exactly the same action and velocity, hurled down the ball with the same frantic effort of arms and body, but, behold, the ball was as slow as possible, and the eye could distinctly follow it as it spun in the air with a palpable leg-bias. Even the great batsman who had to receive it was at fault. He played a little bit too soon, but, happily for Little Clumpton, the ground was so hard and true that it refused to take the full amount of work, and instead of its curling in and taking the Captain’s middle, as the bowler had intended, it refused to come in farther than the leg stick, which was conscientiously covered by the Captain’s pad. There it hit him, and rolled slowly towards the umpire, whilst the wicket-keeper pelted grotesquely after it. “Come on!” I cried, seizing the opportunity, for I was very, very anxious for the Captain to take first over from the other end. Accordingly, we scuttled down the pitch, and I got home just as the wicket-keeper threw down my citadel.