"
"Just Tom's own way," chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his
elbow--"driving a nail where it will go;" to which allusion Tom answered
by a sly kick.
"Exactly so," said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.
Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown
elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket;
and having run one for a forward drive of Johnson's, is about to receive
his first ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four
wickets to go down--a winning match if they play decently steady. The
ball is a very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the outside
of the thigh, and bounding away as if from india-rubber, while they
run two for a leg-bye amidst great applause and shouts from Jack's many
admirers. The next ball is a beautifully-pitched ball for the outer
stump, which the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of, and hits
right round to leg for five, while the applause becomes deafening. Only
seventeen runs to get with four wickets! The game is all but ours!
It is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about his wicket, with his bat
over his shoulder, while Mr. Aislabie holds a short parley with his
men. Then the cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to bowl slow
twisters. Jack waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much as
to say, "See if I don't finish it all off now in three hits.
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