‘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.

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.