The morning had dawned bright and warm, to the intense relief of many an anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the weather.  The eleven went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the cold bath in a corner of the close.  The ground was in splendid order, and soon after ten o’clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready, and two of the Lord’s men took their places at the wickets—­the School, with the usual liberality of young hands, having put their adversaries in first.  Old Bailey stepped up to the wicket, and called play, and the match has begun.

“Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!” cries the captain, catching up the ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while the third Marylebone man walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely sets up the middle stump again and puts the bails on.

“How many runs?” Away scamper three boys to the scoring table, and are back again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are collected together in a knot between wicket.  “Only eighteen runs, and three wickets down!” “Huzza for old Rugby!” sings out Jack Raggles, the long-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called “Swiper Jack,” and forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air in triumph, till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him over on to his back.

“Steady there; don’t be such an ass, Jack,” says the captain; “we haven’t got the best wicket yet.  Ah, look out now at cover-point,” adds he, as he sees a long-armed bare-headed, slashing-looking player coming to the wicket.  “And, Jack, mind your hits.  He steals more runs than any man in England.”

And they all find that they have got their work to do now.  The newcomer’s off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash of lightning.  He is never in his ground except when his wicket is down.  Nothing in the whole game so trying to boys.  He has stolen three byes in the first ten minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and begins throwing over savagely to the farther wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the captain.  It is all that young gentlemen can do to keep his team steady, but he knows that everything depends on it, and faces his work bravely.  The score creeps up to fifty; the boys begin to look blank; and the spectators, who are now mustering strong, are very silent.  The ball flies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives no rest and no catches to any one.  But cricket is full of glorious chances, and the goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful players.  Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball almost wide to the off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to where cover-point is standing very deep—­in fact almost off the ground.  The ball comes skimming and twisting along about three feet from the ground; he rushes at it, and it sticks somehow or other in the fingers of his left hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and the whole field.  Such a catch hasn’t been made in the close for years, and the cheering is maddening.  “Pretty cricket,” says the captain, throwing himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath.  He feels that a crisis has passed.