“That Atkins deserves to be expelled the club!” said the captain in a rage. “He can’t put on a bit of steam when it’s necessary to use his legs, although he could run Prester John out for a ball that wasn’t worth moving for. Play!” And the game went on again.
Giving my opponent another brace of short balls to take him off his guard, I watched my opportunity again and treated him again to a full one, which he skied, as before, to the same point.
This time, however, he did not escape scatheless. Young Black, whom I had strangely missed from his position at long-stop since I commenced to bowl the over, stepped out from beneath the shadow of the trees, where he had concealed himself in the meantime, and amidst the ringing plaudits, not only of our lot but of the spectators as well—who turned round in our favour at the first breath of success—caught the ball with the utmost sangfroid, sending it a moment afterwards spinning in the air triumphantly, in the true cricketonian manner, as an acknowledgment of the feat and accompanying cheers.
It wasn’t much to brag of, getting out the long-limbed one, as it was only one wicket for one hundred and seventeen runs; but when the second man went shortly after without increasing the score, our hopes began to rise. They were hopes based on sand, however. The two newcomers began making runs just like their predecessors, and completely mastered the bowling.
Every member of the club had now been tried with the ball, besides the three visitors, who certainly bowled fairly well, but nothing hysterically brilliant. Even Charley Bates had a turn, although I don’t believe he had ever hit the wicket in his life; and on his surrendering the ball, after presenting our opponents with three wides and any number of byes, our captain was at his wits’ end. He didn’t know who he could set on to bowl.
“Try young Black,” suggested Hardy at this juncture, when we were having a short interval of rest from our exhilarating game of leather-hunting, which had now been going on for two hours and more.
“Young Black, indeed!” repeated Charley Bates with intense scorn.
“Well,” said Prester John, “he can’t possibly do worse than you.”
And the remark was so painfully true that even Charley could not but see the point of it, and he said no more.
On being called, Jemmy Black came up with a broad grin on his face, which looked exactly like one of those public-house signs you sometimes see in country villages, of “The Rising Sun,” or “The Sun in Splendour.” He was otherwise a dapper little fellow, although scarcely five feet in height, and strongly built, his legs and arms being very muscular.