“Ah well! we’ll see,” replied Tom.
That new bowler was something awful. He sent in the balls at such a pace that they came on the wicket like battering-rams, and their twist was so great that they would pitch about a mile off and appear to be wides, when all of a sudden they would spin in on a treacherous curve, right on to a fellow’s leg-stump. John Hardy stood them well enough, blocking away with a calm sense of duty, and never attempting to strike one. But poor Sidney lost his head in a very short time, and hitting out wildly at what he thought was a short ball, it rose right over the shoulder of his bat and carried off his bails in the neatest manner possible—two wickets for forty-one runs, as the captain had only managed to put on three runs since that fiend in human form had come on to bowl.
Of course there was a wild shout of victory from the Inimitables when our best bat was disposed of, and corresponding woe in our camp, which was sympathisingly shared in by all the Little Peddlingtons around, and in the midst of the excitement I went to the wicket to fill the lamented vacancy.
“Mind, Jack,” said Sidney, who did not allow the sense of defeat to overcome his duty, “and be certain to play those balls well back. It was all through my stepping out to them that caused my collapse. Only be cautious and take things coolly, and you and Prester John will tire him out.”
“Oh, yes,” sneered Charley Bates, whose temper had not been improved by his getting out for five, when, in spite of his assurances of the superiority of our antagonists, he had looked forward to getting the highest score against them,—“Oh, yes. Tire him out! Why, the chap hasn’t got into the use of his arm yet. He’ll send Jack Limpet’s stumps flying presently. But I shall laugh when Tom Atkins faces his balls! Our comic man won’t have anything to joke about then, I’ll warrant.”
He was a nasty fellow that Charley Bates! I don’t know anything more ungenerous than to try and dishearten a fellow just when he is going to the wicket, and knows what a responsibility he has resting on him! But, then, what can you expect from such a chap? I’m glad he got out for five. I wish he had been bowled for nix.
With these pleasant thoughts in my mind I walked leisurely up the ground from where I had been standing by the scoring tent watching the game, and with an inward sinking at my heart faced the “Slogger,” as we had christened our opponents’ terrible bowler.
For a couple of overs I got on very well. Acting on the captain’s advice I stopped in my own ground, playing all the Slogger’s balls carefully back, and by this means managed to score two good leg hits in the fourth over, that sent up six to my account, in addition to three singles, which I had put on by careful watchfulness at first.
Just then, however, Prester John made a hit for a wonder—a straight drive for five; and fired with emulation I let out at the next ball I received. Throwing all caution and the captain’s commands to the winds, I did “let out with a vengeance,” as Tom Atkins said on my return to the tent, for I “let in” the ball, which, coming in with a swish, snapped my leg-stump in two, sending the pieces flying sky high in the air!
Three wickets for fifty-seven runs, two for byes; so far, the scoring was not bad; but in a very short time Pelion was piled on Ossa in the history of our disasters. Prester John got run out through the absurd folly of Tom Atkins, who stopped actually in mid-wicket to laugh at some nonsense or other that had at that moment flashed across the vision of what he called his “mind;” and with his fall our chances sank rapidly to zero, wicket after wicket being taken without a run being scored, until the whole of us were out for a total still under sixty.