In the meantime the game had been progressing steadily. The troopers had had their first innings and had scored one hundred runs and the rangers had scored ninety with the loss of nine wickets. The excitement was intense, “Well bowled,” “Well hit,” “Oh, well fielded” being howled by the enraptured lookers-on after every delivery, while ribald chaff, banter and badinage were being exchanged by troopers and rangers that would have shocked the spectators of a modern test match. The last hope of the Footsloggers was a leviathan sergeant, an old Varsity blue, but his partner was a very fragile reed, who only required one straight ball to finish. Could the sergeant keep the bowling to himself? That was the question, and men hugged themselves with excitement. He has it now, and the fielders retire farther out. By gad! he gets a loose one, and opening his shoulders he smacks it over Long-on’s head. Big as the hit is he will only get three or perhaps four for it, as on that tussocky ground where a ball pitches there it stops, and Long-on is far out. Still the hit is a big one and is cheered by his delighted friends. “Well hit,” “Oh, well hit,” “Run it out,” “Oh, run it out.” Nor are the troopers behindhand with their shouts. “Double up, oh, double up,” “Sling it in, oh, sling it in,” as Long-on has turned and, weighed down by revolver and ammunition pouches, darts after the leather sphere. Yes, there it is lying on that bit of open ground less than a hundred yards from that patch of scrub. Spurred on by the wild turmoil of shouts--“Oh, hurry up; for God’s sake hurry up,” “Chuck her in now--smart,” “There, run three, run it out; allow one for the throw,” etc., etc.--he rushes at the ball. But what’s the matter? Of a sudden the wild yells terminate into the pious ejaculation of “Oh, hell!” while the eager fielder throws himself on his nose, hunting cover, and drawing his revolver lets go the agonising shout of “_Lost ball!_” Well this is what the matter was. As the questing fielder rushes to secure the ball that lies in full view in front of him and throw it in, out of that patch of manuka scrub darts several spurts of flame and smoke, and a number of balls of a different nature whistle round his head, and I ask you present-day cricketers which of you would have cared to have fielded that ball and slung it in to the expectant wicket-keeper? Or would you have hunted cover and howled, “_Lost ball!_” as that Pigskin Polisher did? “Damn such interruptions,” shouts the umpire, who was the Colonel at that; “drive the beggars off the field.” And in a moment batsmen, fielders, umpires, scorers and onlookers grab their weapons and charge that patch of manuka scrub. We reach and tear through it just in time to see a party of Hau Haus disappear into a clump of bush some way farther off, then, laughing and cussing, return to our game as the friendly natives good-naturedly offer to keep the ground for us.