"Oh, Brown, mayn't I go in next?" shouts the Swiper.
"Whose name is next on the list?" says the captain.
"Winter's, and then Arthur's," answers the boy who carries it; "but there are only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. I heard Mr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn at a quarter past eight exactly."
"Oh, do let the Swiper go in," chorus the boys; so Tom yields against his better judgment.
"I dare say now I've lost the match by this nonsense," he says, as he sits down again; "they'll be sure to get Jack's wicket in three or four minutes; however, you'll have the chance, sir, of seeing a hard hit or two," adds he, smiling, and turning to the master.
"Come, none of your irony, Brown," answers the master. "I'm beginning to understand the game scientifically. What a noble game it is, too!"
"Isn't it? But it's more than a game. It's an institution."
"Yes," said Arthur, "the birth-right of British boys old and young, as habeas corpus[33] and trial by jury are of British men."
"The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches, is so valuable, I think," went on the master; "it ought to be such an unselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he doesn't play that he may win, but that his side may."
"That's very true," said Tom, "and that's why foot-ball and cricket, now one comes to think of it, are much better games than fives or hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in first or to win for one's self, and not that one's side may win."