when we all sallied down
to the marsh, followed by every idler in Glyndewi, he used to disappear
occasionally in the mornings, and for some days puzzled us as to where
and how he disposed of himself. We had engaged, in our corporate
capacity, the services of a most original retainer, who cleaned boots,
fetched the beer, ate the cold mutton, and made himself otherwise
useful when required. He was amphibious in his habits, having been a
herring-fisher the best part of his life; but being a martyr to the
rheumatism, which occasionally screwed him up into indescribable forms,
had betaken himself to earning a precarious subsistence as he could on
shore. It was not often that we required his services between breakfast
and luncheon, but one morning, after having despatched Gwenny in all
directions to hunt for Bill Thomas in vain, we at at last elicited from
her that "maybe she was gone with Mr Dawson." Then it came out, to our
infinite amusement, that Dawson was in the habit, occasionally, of
impressing our factotum Bill to carry bat, stumps, and ball down to the
marsh, and there commencing private practice on his own account.

Mr Sydney Dawson and Bill Thomas--the sublime and the
ridiculous--amalgamating at cricket, was far too good a joke to lose; so
we got Hanmer to cut his lecture short, and come down with us to the
scene of action. From the cover of a sand-bank, we had a view of all
that was going on in the plain below. There was our friend at the
wicket, with his coat off, and the grey spectacles on, in an attitude
which it must have taken him some study to accomplish, and Bill, with
the ball in his hand, vociferating "Plaiy." A ragged urchin behind the
wicket, attempting to bag the balls as Dawson missed them in what had
once been a hat, and Sholto looking on with an air of mystification,
completed the picture.

"That's too slow," said Sydney, as Bill, after some awful contortions,
at length delivered himself of what he called a cast. "_Diawl!_" said
Bill, _sotto voce_, as he again got possession of the ball. "That's too
high," was the complaint, as, with an extraordinary kind of jerk, it
flew some yards over the batsman's head, and took what remained of the
crown out of the little lazzaroni's hat behind. "_Diawl!_" quoth Bill
again, apologetically. "She got too much way on her that time." Bill
was generally pretty wide of his mark, and great appeared to be the
satisfaction of all parties when Dawson contrived to make