ngst the rest of the eleven, who are collected
together in a knot between wicket. "Only eighteen runs, and three
wickets down!" "Huzza for old Rugby!" sings out Jack Raggles the
long-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called 'Swiper Jack;'
and forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air in
triumph, till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him
over on to his back.

"Steady there, don't be such an ass, Jack," says the captain; "we
haven't got the best wicket yet. Ah, look out now at cover-point," adds
he, as he sees a long-armed, bare-headed, slashing-looking player coming
to the wicket. "And, Jack, mind your hits; he steals more runs than any
man in England."

And they all find that they have got their work to do now: the
new-comer's off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash of
lightning. He is never in his ground, except when his wicket is down.
Nothing in the whole game so trying to boys; he has stolen three byes in
the first ten minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and begins throwing
over savagely to the further wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the
captain. It is all that young gentleman can do to keep his team steady,
but he knows that everything depends on it, and faces his work bravely.
The score creeps up to fifty, the boys begin to look blank, and the
spectators, who are now mustering strong, are very silent. The ball
flies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives no rest and no
catches to any one. But cricket is full of glorious chances, and the
goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful
players. Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball
almost wide to the off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to
where cover-point is standing very deep, in fact almost off the ground.
The ball comes skimming and twisting along about three feet from the
ground; he rushes at it, and it sticks somehow or other in the fingers
of his left hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and the whole
field. Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for years, and the
cheering is maddening. "Pretty cricket," says the captain, throwing
himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath; he
feels that a crisis has passed.

I wish I had space to describe the whole match; how the captain stumped
the next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled slow lobs to old Mr.
Aislabie, who came in for the last wick