William Grey then set forth to muster his men, remembering with great complacency that Samuel Long, the very man who had bowled us out at a fatal return match some years ago at S—­, our neighbours south-by-east, had luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last Lady Day, crossed the boundaries of his old parish and actually belonged to us.  Here was a stroke of good fortune!  Our captain applied to him instantly, and he agreed at a word.  We felt we had half gained the match when we had secured him.  Then James Brown, a journeyman blacksmith and a native, who, being of a rambling disposition, had roamed from place to place for half a dozen years, had just returned to our village with a prodigious reputation in cricket and gallantry.  To him also went the indefatigable William Grey, and he also consented to play.  Having thus secured two powerful auxiliaries, we began to reckon the regular forces.

Thus ran our list.  William Grey, 1; Samuel Long, 2; James Brown, 3; George and John Simmons, one capital, the other so-so—­an uncertain hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5; Joel Brent, excellent, 6; Ben Appleton—­here was a little pause, for Ben’s abilities at cricket were not completely ascertained, but then he was a good fellow, so full of fun and waggery!  No doing without Ben.  So he figured in the list as 7.  George Harris—­a short halt there too—­slowish, but sure, 8; Tom Coper—­oh, beyond the world Tom Coper, the red-headed gardening lad, whose left-handed strokes send her (a cricket-ball is always of the feminine gender) send her spinning a mile, 9; Harry Willis, another blacksmith, 10.

We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice of the last occasioned some demur.  John Strong, a nice youth—­everybody likes John Strong—­was the next candidate, but he is so tall and limp that we were all afraid his strength, in spite of his name, would never hold out.  So the eve of the match arrived and the post was still vacant, when a little boy of fifteen, David Willis, brother to Harry, admitted by accident to the last practice, saw eight of them out, and was voted in by acclamation.

Morning dawned.  On calling over our roll, Brown was missing; and it transpired that he had set off at four o’clock in the morning to play in a cricket match at M——­, a little town twelve miles off, which had been his last residence.  Here was desertion!  Here was treachery!  How we cried him down!  We were well rid of him, for he was no batter compared with William Grey; not fit to wipe the shoes of Samuel Long as a bowler; the boy David Willis was worth fifty of him.  So we took tall John Strong.  I never saw any one prouder than the good-humoured lad was at this not very flattering piece of preferment.

They began the warfare—­these boastful men of B——!  And what think you was the amount of their innings?  These challengers—­the famous eleven—­how many did they get?  Think!  Imagine!  Guess!  You cannot.  Well, they got twenty-two, or, rather, they got twenty, for two of theirs were short notches, and would never have been allowed, only that, seeing what they were made of, we and our umpires were not particular.  Oh, how well we fielded.