By cocking T. S. M. under his leg for another two, the Ancient completed his fifty in the following over. Runs were beginning to come as they pleased. Each batsman had satisfied his dreams. He could now afford to take liberties and play to the crowd a bit. The Captain did; the Ancient didn’t. It sums up the essential difference between the two. The Captain began to talk to T. S. M. He leapt out and hit him out of the ground for six. T. S. M. immediately went off, obedient, doubtless, to a peremptory command that appeared to proceed from the recesses of the ladies’ tent. H. C., the lion-hearted, still continued to hurl them down at his best pace. But it was manifestly not his day. The Captain, with his score at 112, was palpably missed at the wicket. Charlie also beat the Ancient twice with successive balls, and occasionally knocked at that little batsman’s ribs, no doubt to remind him that he was becoming a nuisance. The Ancient, however, merely drew a long breath to assure himself that it was not a compound fracture, blinked reflectively, took a new guard, and continued as before. Two hundred went up, and still no separation. Matters were growing ominous. Men were heard to inquire what was the record score in Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, by whom was it made, and when? It appeared that Hickory’s 503 for nine, in the pre-declaration days of 1887, held it. Would it be eclipsed? Runs still came at their own sweet will. With his score at 133, Halliday was missed off Charlie for the second time by the unhappy wicket-keeper. The crowd grew vigorous in its observations, and began to applaud the poor beggar every time he handled the ball. Whenever the British Public swarm, they invariably bring their manners with them. The appearance of the “telegraph” was fast becoming a thing of beauty. Ten followed ten without the slightest hesitation. The bowling began to exhibit signs of getting used up. Charlie, still wicketless, had gone off, whilst that crowning glory of a good side, its fielding, was not taking itself quite so seriously as it did earlier in the day. But neither the Optimist nor I were, perhaps, as whole-hearted as we might have been in our enthusiasm. Our thoughts would keep straying to Miss Grace. Why had we not been born county cricketers? It was bitterness for me to reflect that I was already out for seven, and that my own impetuosity had caused me to forfeit a chance for which so many sighed in vain. As for the Optimist, he was conscious of certain rather pronounced weaknesses in his style, which he was too old now to correct. “Perhaps she hasn’t seen you bat, though?” said I consolingly. “She ain’t, that’s certain,” said he wearily; “and if I’m lucky, she never will!”