“Oh, well hit!” came the voice of the Captain down the wicket. The crowd broke into a roar, and in a perfect ecstasy I looked into what I guessed should be the direction of the ball. Behold! there was cover-point on the verge of the boundary waiting whilst a spectator officiously returned it. It was merely the force of habit that was responsible for that fourer, but the sensation of pure rapture was incomparable. As there is nothing in the whole range of poetry or prose with which to point a parallel, it must be allowed that beside a perfectly-timed boundary hit, on a hard ground, from fast bowling, all other delights of this life are as nothingness. The fourth ball came along in much the same way as the third, yet was appreciably shorter and slower. I left it severely alone. The fifth was a regular uprooting yorker, but I got my bat down in time and chopped it away. So much for the crack’s first over. I had broken my duck in the most handsome manner; I could see the ball; I was beginning to feel alarmingly happy; I never felt so fit and so much like making runs. And I had only to continue as I’d started to be sure of a trial for the county next week against Somerset. But I must restrain my eagerness, play steady, and keep cool. The Captain adopted the same tactics of masterly inactivity in regard to the second over of the youthful T.S.M. He was quite an ordinary club bowler compared to his great brother at the other end. A shortish one was hooked quietly round to leg for a single, and it was my turn to meet him. There was not a hint of my previous vacillation in the way I took my guard. The buzzing in my head had altogether gone; my eye was as clear and keen as possible. I had had my baptism of fire already. This was very common stuff; indeed, so much so that I took the liberty of turning the second ball I had of it to leg for three.