The young lady encountered by Mr. Raikes on the road to Fallow field, was wrong in saying that Beckley would be seen out before the shades of evening caught up the ball.  Not one, but two men of Beckley—­the last two—­carried out their bats, cheered handsomely by both parties.  The wickets pitched in the morning, they carried them in again, and plaudits renewed proved that their fame had not slumbered.  To stand before a field, thoroughly aware that every successful stroke you make is adding to the hoards of applause in store for you is a joy to your friends, an exasperation to your foes; I call this an exciting situation, and one as proud as a man may desire.  Then, again, the two last men of an eleven are twins:  they hold one life between them; so that he who dies extinguishes the other.  Your faculties are stirred to their depths.  You become engaged in the noblest of rivalries:  in defending your own, you fight for your comrade’s existence.  You are assured that the dread of shame, if not emulation, is making him equally wary and alert.

Behold, then, the two bold men of Beckley fighting to preserve one life.  Under the shadow of the downs they stand, beneath a glorious day, and before a gallant company.  For there are ladies in carriages here, there are cavaliers; good county names may be pointed out.  The sons of first-rate families are in the two elevens, mingled with the yeomen and whoever can best do the business.  Fallow field and Beckley, without regard to rank, have drawn upon their muscle and science.  One of the bold men of Beckley at the wickets is Nick Frim, son of the gamekeeper at Beckley Court; the other is young Tom Copping, son of Squire Copping, of Dox Hall, in the parish of Beckley.  Last year, you must know, Fallow field beat.  That is why Nick Frim, a renowned out-hitter, good to finish a score brilliantly with a pair of threes, has taken to blocking, and Mr. Tom cuts with caution, though he loves to steal his runs, and is usually dismissed by his remarkable cunning.

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.’