And now small boys (who represent the Press here) spread out from the marking-booth, announcing foremost, and in larger type, as it were, quite in Press style, their opinion—­which is, that Fallow field will get a jolly good hiding; and vociferating that Beckley is seventy-nine ahead, and that Nick Frim, the favourite of the field, has scored fifty-one to his own cheek.  The boys are boys of both villages:  but they are British boys—­they adore prowess.  The Fallow field boys wish that Nick Frim would come and live on their side; the boys of Beckley rejoice in possessing him.  Nick is the wicketkeeper of the Beckley eleven; long-limbed, wiry, keen of eye.  His fault as a batsman is, that he will be a slashing hitter.  He is too sensible of the joys of a grand spanking hit.  A short life and a merry one, has hitherto been his motto.

But there were reasons for Nick’s rare display of skill.  That woman may have the credit due to her (and, as there never was a contest of which she did not sit at the springs, so is she the source of all superhuman efforts exhibited by men), be it told that Polly Wheedle is on the field; Polly, one of the upper housemaids of Beckley Court; Polly, eagerly courted by Fred Linnington, humbly desired by Nick Frim—­a pert and blooming maiden—­who, while her suitors combat hotly for an undivided smile, improves her holiday by instilling similar unselfish aspirations into the breasts of others.

Between his enjoyment of society and the melancholy it engendered in his mind by reflecting on him the age and decrepitude of his hat, Mr. John Raikes was doubtful of his happiness for some time.  But as his taste for happiness was sharp, he, with a great instinct amounting almost to genius in its pursuit, resolved to extinguish his suspicion by acting the perfectly happy man.  To do this, it was necessary that he should have listeners:  Evan was not enough, and was besides unsympathetic; he had not responded to Jack’s cordial assurances of his friendship ’in spite of anything,’ uttered before they came into the field.

Heat and lustre were now poured from the sky, on whose soft blue a fleet of clouds sailed heavily.  Nick Frim was very wonderful, no doubt.  He deserved that the Gods should recline on those gold-edged cushions above, and lean over to observe him.  Nevertheless, the ladies were beginning to ask when Nick Frim would be out.  The small boys alone preserved their enthusiasm for Nick.  As usual, the men took a middle position.  Theirs was the pleasure of critics, which, being founded on the judgement, lasts long, and is without disappointment at the close.  It was sufficient that the ladies should lend the inspiration of their bonnets to this fine match.  Their presence on the field is another beautiful instance of the generous yielding of the sex simply to grace our amusement, and their acute perception of the part they have to play.