‘Trew, Tom!’
‘An’ ye ha’ant touched a crickut bat fer thirty year.’
‘Trew agen,’ returned the Captain serenely.
‘Ha, hum! well! a good plucked-un ye be, anyways. Now then, Dickie!’
The first small boy set forth over the sunny stretch of grass that lay between the tent and the waiting team. Very small and insignificant he looked in his school-corduroys, and leg-pads that reached well-nigh up to his waist. His advent was greeted with ribaldry from all parts of the field. We heard Daniel Dray admonishing the boy as he came smiling up to the pitch.
‘Now, Dickie, doan’t ye dare run ’til I shouts to ye, an’ then run as if He wur after ye. Hould your bat straight, ye young varmint! Now then, look hout! There! what did I tell ye?’
Dickie’s wicket was down, and Dickie himself was running back to the tent vastly relieved.
‘Out wi’ ye, Georgie Huggins! An’ do as well as your faather!’ cried Tom Clemmer encouragingly. ‘’Tis hover, an’ Dan’l’s got th’ play now. Oh, Dan’l, Dan’l! if only ’twur you an’ me!’
But, playing with the ingenuity as well as the courage of despair, young Daniel Dray now began to show his true mettle. Odd runs he refused, taking only even numbers, so that each time the bowling fell to his lot again. At the end of the over, he stole a desperate single with the same object in view. He reached home safe enough, but Georgie was run out. Boy Number Two had been disposed of at the cost of a gallant six.
Following the same tactics, young Daniel eked out the remaining three boys with still more crafty skill. When at length old Stallwood, the last man, launched out into the sunlight to show the town what he remembered of cricket, the score had risen to forty-nine, and our spirits with it. We cheered him lustily as he went.