Look at him now, getting "middle" as if he'd the whole afternoon before
him! And that done, he slowly and deliberately taps the end of his bat
on the place till we almost yell with rage.

"It's no use now!" groans our captain in absolute despair; and so,
indeed, we and our smiling adversaries all thought.

"Play!" cries the bowler.

"Wait a bit," says the aggravating Ned, dipping his hands in the
sawdust! "now!"

The ball comes at last, and Ned lets fly. It is a grand hit; the ball
comes whizzing right past where we stand, and with delight as great as
our previous agony we cheer till we are hoarse.

Three runs are added to our score, and now we only want one more to
equal our opponents, and two to win; but we shall never do it in the
time, unless fortune favours us strangely. For see, it is "over," and
the fielders will consume half of the remaining two minutes in changing
their position.

Then again "play" is called.

Would you believe it? Ned calls out for "middle" again at the new
wicket, and repeats the same pottering operation when he has got it.
"Well, if ever _I_ saw--"

What our captain is about to say no one ever hears, for at that moment
the ball is delivered, and Ned blocks it dead.

There is just time for one ball more, and on that all our hopes depend.

It comes, and Ned bangs at it! It's a run! No, it isn't! yes it is!
The fielder has missed it. Hurrah! we are equal!

Actually they are running another! They won't do it. Up comes the ball
to the wicket-keeper, and forward darts Ned's bat over the crease.

"How's that, umpire?" cries the wicket-keeper.

"Not out!"

"Time's up!"

Oh, how we cheer! How we rush forward and shoulder Ned home to the
tent. Never was such a close shave of a match!

Ned himself by no means shares in the general excitement.

"Why, what a hurry you fellows were in!" he says. "Look here, George,
I'll show you now what I meant about the springs on the pads."

Now you will understand what a very aggravating fellow this Ned Easy
was; and yet he generally managed to come off best in the end. He
generally managed to scrape in at the finish of whatever he undertook.

I am certain that if he were a prisoner of war _let_ out on parole, with
a pledge to return in one hour or suffer death, he would turn up cool
and comfortable on the sixtieth tick of the sixtieth minute of that
hour, and look quite surprised at the men who were loading their muskets
for his