Taking from the ground a wooden missile in the shape of a cheese, he poised it between his fingers as if it had been a pebble, and, casting the whole weight of his body, pitched the ball towards the upright pins.
It struck the front pin on the left shoulder, and, pirouetting round the ring, knocked all down.
“Brayvo—brayvo!” cried the rustics, knocking their great mugs against the table. “A floorer.”
“That was a squiver,” said one of them. “Nothing like a flat ball to tiddle ’em over.”
“Fust hoss to Bill,” cried another, chalking down one on the table.
“You’ve got your Sunday play on to-day,” said the other, as he took the ball in his hands.
His throw was less fortunate.
Only one pin fell, which, after rolling among the others and creating a false interest for awhile, calmly subsided in the dust.
“There, I give ’ee the game and the pot. There’s no tackling ye at skittles to-night, that’s sartin; and I can’t make no how of it either.”
“Who’s next—next?” cried the victor. “Will e’er a one of ye have a shy for a pot, or wont ye? I’ll tak two to one I gets the three fronts, and I’ll take it even I floors ’em.”