The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair, not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left hand.
"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!" he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by the rope, "how stands the score?"
The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied:
"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'ready twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out."
"Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the ball—underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground, pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual—the village smith. He, bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision and disappointment.
"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner, running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two notches in the scoring stick.
Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upon their enjoyment.
Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had.
"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a most teasing twist; capital, capital!"
"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?"