But cricket is full of glorious chances, and
the goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful
players. Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball
almost wide to the off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to
where cover-point is standing very deep--in fact almost off the ground.
The ball comes skimming and twisting along about three feet from the
ground; he rushes at it, and it sticks somehow or other in the fingers
of his left hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and the whole
field. Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for years, and the
cheering is maddening. "Pretty cricket," says the captain, throwing
himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath. He
feels that a crisis has passed.
I wish I had space to describe the match--how the captain stumped the
next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old Mr. Aislabie,
who came in for the last wicket; how the Lord's men were out by
half-past twelve o'clock for ninety-eight runs; how the captain of
the School eleven went in first to give his men pluck, and scored
twenty-five in beautiful style; how Rugby was only four behind in
the first innings; what a glorious dinner they had in the fourth-form
school; and how the cover-point hitter sang the most topping comic
songs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best speeches that ever were heard,
afterwards.
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