eclared that there was "a beastly conspiracy."

Possibly there was; but it was only between the two friends, who strove
their best to put him out, the one by a clean ball which sent stumps and
bails flying, the other by laying his wicket low with a sharp movement
when Slegge's long legs had, in his excitement carried him off his
ground.

One morning there was a little meeting held under the elms by twelve of
the very junior juniors, for they had found out a malicious act on the
part of their tyrant, or rather he had openly boasted of it himself, and
not only showed the little fellows visually what he had done to his
practice-bat, as he called it, but also awakened them thoroughly to his
play.

"'Tisn't fair," said one of them. "I vote we lay it all before Burney
and Severn and Hot Pickles."

"No," said another, "it isn't fair. He couldn't do it off Glyn Severn's
bowling; not that we chaps bowl badly. Severn calls some of us toppers,
and last week and several times since he put me up to giving the balls a
twist. You know; you saw--those long-pitched balls that drop in as
quiet as a mouse, and look as if they are going wide, but curl in round
the end of a fellow's bat, just tap a stump, and down go the bails
before he knows where he is."

"Yes; but I don't see much good in that," said another. "You didn't
take much out of it yesterday when you put old Shanks's wicket down, and
he gave you a lick on the head for it."

"I don't care if he'd given me a dozen," said the little fellow with a
grin. "I took old Bully Bounce's wicket. Oh, didn't it make him wild!"

"Yes; but it isn't fair, as I said before," cried the first speaker.
"He could do what he liked with our bowling before, but now we have got
to run nearly off our legs to fetch up fivers. I say it isn't fair. He
must have got half-a-pound of lead let into the end of his bat. Took it
down to the carpenter's, he did, and made old Gluepot bore three holes
in the bottom with a centre-bit, pour in a lot of melted lead, and then
plug the bottom up again with wood."

"Here, I know," said one; "let's watch for our chance, and get Wrench--
he'll keep it a secret; he hates Longshanks--let's ask him to make a
fire under the wash-house copper, and one of us could do it I'll
volunteer. I'll smuggle out Slegge's bat, and it wouldn't take long.
Just hold it on the fire where it's hottest, and the lead would all melt
and run out."

"And what about the end of the