"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.
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