“I wish I was behind him with a red-hot poker,” says one; “I’d make him trot!”
“Not a bit of it,” growls our captain; “Ned would want more than that to start him.”
Look at him now, getting “middle” as if he’d the whole afternoon before him! And that done, he slowly and deliberately taps the end of his bat on the place till we almost yell with rage.
“It’s no use now!” groans our captain in absolute despair; and so, indeed, we and our smiling adversaries all thought.
“Play!” cries the bowler.
“Wait a bit,” says the aggravating Ned, dipping his hands in the sawdust! “now!”
The ball comes at last, and Ned lets fly. It is a grand hit; the ball comes whizzing right past where we stand, and with delight as great as our previous agony we cheer till we are hoarse.
Three runs are added to our score, and now we only want one more to equal our opponents, and two to win; but we shall never do it in the time, unless fortune favours us strangely. For see, it is “over,” and the fielders will consume half of the remaining two minutes in changing their position.
Then again “play” is called.
Would you believe it? Ned calls out for “middle” again at the new wicket, and repeats the same pottering operation when he has got it. “Well, if ever I saw—”