Having tubbed and shaved I felt so fit as I walked down to have a look at the ground before breakfast that I had to restrain myself from jumping five-barred gates. It was a perfect morning, flushed with summer. The birds on the boughs were welcoming the young sun; the mists were running before him; the dew on the trees was dancing to him; whilst the drenched meadows and the cool haze receding to the hills promised ninety in the shade to follow. Evidently Nature, like a downright good sportsman, was going to let us have a real cricketers’ day for a true cricketing occasion. Such fragrance made the blood leap. Every muscle seemed electric. To snuff the chill airs was to feel as fit and full of devil as a racehorse. By Jove, I felt like getting ’em! There were clean off-drives in the eager brooks, clipping cuts for four in the sparkling grass, sweet leg glances in the singing hedgerows, inimitable hooks and behind-the-wicket strokes in the cheerful field noises and the bird-thrilled branches; and when the sun burst out more fully in premonition of what was to be his magnificent display at Little Clumpton _versus_ Hickory later in the day, I said to an unresponsive cow, “How do you like that, H. C.?” for I had just lifted the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods, clean out of the ground for six. And having begun to this tune, of course I went on getting ’em. I continued cutting, driving, and leg hitting at such a pace, that by the time I had made the half-mile to the ground that morning, a mere five minutes’ walk, I was rapidly approaching my century. They may talk of Jessop, but I think this gives a long start to any performances of his, although it is possible that he may have had to meet bowling rather more “upon the spot.” I was in great form though. I found the ground-man standing beside the wicket, looking at it lovingly. He had his head on one side, as he gazed with an air as of Michael Angelo surveying his masterpiece. “Mornin’ to you, sir!” “Mornin’ Wiggles. How’s the wicket?” “This ain’t no wicket, sir. It’s a bloomin’ billiard-table wot Dawson’s a’ inviting of Roberts to come and play on. And Lord, sir, have you seed the side that Hickory’s a-bringing--a bloomin’ county team. There’s them there Trenthams, all the boiling of ’em, and Carteret and Elphinstone of Kent. They do say as how Francis Ford and Fry’s a-coming, too, as Hickory’s a bit weak in batting like, seeing as how Billy Thumbs the cobbler’s short o’ practice. Well, sir, I on’y hopes they comes, and Ranjy with ’em, because, if you come to think on it, Hickory ain’t got no side at all. And such a piece of concrete wot’s awaiting ’em! ’Tween you and me, sir, I think if I was a bowler I should take to batting for to-day.” “We had better win the toss then,” I said gloomily. “That’s a very good idea, sir, for I’m thinking whoever gets in on this, somebody’ll be so tired afore six-thirty.”