Encouraged by these remarks, the object of them strode to his wicket and took block. Lionel explained what was needed:
“We haven’t time to finish the match. Hamlin may declare our innings closed if we touch the double century. Then our great chance is to get ’em all out before time is called.”
“Where do we stand now?”
“We’ve made about a hundred and ninety.”
The slogger brandished the willow. Joel hurtled forward. A deep groan came from the bench of granfers as a judicious “yorker” knocked two stumps out of the ground. The discomfited batsman glared at a mocking field.
“I warn’t ready,” he shouted. “You hear me?”
“Tut, tut!” said the Squire. “They can hear you in Salisbury, my man. Better luck next time.”
One of the Mucklow brethren took his place. Joel delivered a terrific ball, which seemed to whiz straight at the batsman’s head. Mucklow bobbed; the bails flew. Long-Baddeley howled with joy. Adam Mucklow scratched his head. He was assured by Point that it was still on his shoulders. Sadly, sighing deeply, he went his weary way. Lord Fordingbridge said jovially: “Joel, if you do the hat trick, order one of the best at my expense.” George Mucklow advanced.
“Don’t ’ee be afeared, Garge!”
“I ain’t afeared,” declared George, valiantly; but he was. His knees were as wax.