The stumps, like much of the material, were home-made. The Dingdonglas had only one "spring handle"; the others were chopped out of beech boards. The Tareelians were not much better off for material. They, it is true, had two "spring handles,"—more or less battered,—and could boast a pair of wicket gloves, but for the rest were like their opponents, sans leggings and gloves. That, however, was a small item; for every boy who possessed boots doffed them, rolling his trouser legs to the knees and his shirt sleeves to the elbows.
"Got all your men, Wilson?" said Joe to the Dingdonglas' captain.
"Yes, they're all here. May as well toss for innin's, Joe."
"Right you are," responds Joe, ejecting a jet of saliva on a piece of flat wood. "Shall I toss, or you?"
"You toss, Joe."
"Call you!" cried Blain, tossing the board with a twirl skywards. "Wet or dry?"
"Wet!" called Wilson, as the wood spun in the air.
"Dry!" exclaimed Joe, as it lay on the ground with its dry side uppermost. "We've won, and go in."
"Tom," said he a moment later, "you and Yellow Billy go in first, an' you take the strike."
The batsmen were soon in their places, and the Dingdongs in the field. The innings opened fairly well for the Tareelians. Yellow Billy got quickly to work, and laid on the wood to some purpose; Tom playing carefully the while.