The field was ringing at a stroke of Nick Frim’s, who had lashed out in his old familiar style at last, and the heavens heard of it, when Evan came into the circle of spectators.  Nick and Tom were stretching from post to post, might and main.  A splendid four was scored.  The field took breath with the heroes; and presume not to doubt that heroes they are.  It is good to win glory for your country; it is also good to win glory for your village.  A Member of Parliament, Sir George Lowton, notes this emphatically, from the statesman’s eminence, to a group of gentlemen on horseback round a carriage wherein a couple of fair ladies reclined.

’They didn’t shout more at the news of the Battle of Waterloo.  Now this is our peculiarity, this absence of extreme centralization.  It must be encouraged.  Local jealousies, local rivalries, local triumphs—­these are the strength of the kingdom.’

‘If you mean to say that cricket’s a ——­’ the old squire speaking (Squire Uplift of Fallow field) remembered the saving presences, and coughed—­’good thing, I’m one with ye, Sir George.  Encouraged, egad!  They don’t want much of that here.  Give some of your lean London straws a strip o’ clean grass and a bit o’ liberty, and you’ll do ’em a service.’

‘What a beautiful hit!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, languidly watching the ascent of the ball.

‘Beautiful, d’ ye call it?’ muttered the squire.

The ball, indeed, was dropping straight into the hands of the long-hit-off.  Instantly a thunder rolled.  But it was Beckley that took the joyful treble—­Fallow field the deeply—­cursing bass.  The long-hit-off, he who never was known to miss a catch-butter-fingered beast!—­he has let the ball slip through his fingers.

Are there Gods in the air?  Fred Linnington, the unfortunate of Fallow field, with a whole year of unhappy recollection haunting him in prospect, ere he can retrieve his character—­Fred, if he does not accuse the powers of the sky, protests that he cannot understand it, which means the same.

Fallow field’s defeat—­should such be the result of the contest—­ he knows now will be laid at his door.  Five men who have bowled at the indomitable Beckleyans think the same.  Albeit they are Britons, it abashes them.  They are not the men they were.  Their bowling is as the bowling of babies; and see!  Nick, who gave the catch, and pretends he did it out of commiseration for Fallow field, the ball has flown from his bat sheer over the booth.  If they don’t add six to the score, it will be the fault of their legs.  But no:  they rest content with a fiver and cherish their wind.

Yet more they mean to do, Success does not turn the heads of these Britons, as it would of your frivolous foreigners.