As the umpires were already out, there was no time left in which the case might be considered in all its aspects. It was a memorable sight when Hickory took the field two minutes later. The assembly was still greater than before. Little Clumpton, always warm favourites, since they relied on purely local men, had had the might of their achievement noised abroad. 165 for one wicket against Hickory’s formidable side was a morning’s work that had sent the majority of those present into the seventh heaven of enthusiasm. Would Halliday get his hundred? Would Oldknow get his fifty? The cheers that greeted these heroes when they came out of the pavilion was something to cherish in the memory. They marched to the crease with stately unconcern. Their apparent unconsciousness of the clamour they had excited bordered on the sublime. They began with extreme caution. The first few overs were a repetition of their morning’s methods. There was no hurry for runs. The Ancient cocked one under his leg for two, and the Captain stole a single. This was the sum total of their scoring during the first ten minutes. Was Halliday never going to get his hundred? He still required one. The fielding was so keen and the bowling so straight that there still seemed an element of uncertainty about it. This assumed a palpable shape a moment later, when every man in the slips, point, the bowler, the wicket-keeper, and heaven knows who besides, yelled at the pitch of their lungs. “How’s that?” One could almost hear the great heart of the crowd beating through the terribly portentous silence, that so respectfully awaited the umpire’s verdict. The Optimist and I bent forward in our eagerness. Could it be that Halliday was to have the cup dashed from his lips in this manner? We despondently remembered that it was nine years since a man had scored a century for Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Suddenly the wicket-keeper threw down the ball with an impatient gesture. The crisis was passed. Halliday was given in. He cut Charlie’s next ball like a knife to the boundary. The scene that ensued is not to be described. Veterans cheered; strong men adjourned for beer. The best bowler in England to be collared to this tune! Little Clumpton 192 for 1. Halliday, not out, 103. And that this moment might be furnished with every joy on which the great British Public dotes, a small boy in the exuberance of the hour, thought well to fall from a tall tree wherein he was perched, and delighted the populace by showing it how easily he could break his collar-bone.