r required, Copsley being weak this year.
Eight of their wickets had fallen for a lament able figure of twenty-nine
runs; himself clean-bowled the first ball. But Tom Redworth had got fast
hold of his wicket, and already scored fifty to his bat. 'There! grand
hit!' Sir Lukin cried, the ball flying hard at the rails. 'Once a
cricketer, always a cricketer, if you've legs to fetch the runs. And
Pullen's not doing badly. His business is to stick. We shall mark them a
hundred yet. I do hate a score on our side without the two 00's.' He
accounted for Redworth's mixed colours by telling the ladies he had lent
him his flannel jacket; which, against black trousers, looked odd but not
ill.

Gradually the enthusiasm of the booth and bystanders converted the flying
of a leather ball into a subject of honourable excitement.

'And why are you doing nothing?' Sir Lukin was asked; and he explained:

'My stumps are down: I'm married.' He took his wife's hand prettily.

Diana had a malicious prompting. She smothered the wasp, and said: 'Oh!
look at that!'

'Grand hit again! Oh! good! good!' cried Sir Lukin, clapping to it, while
the long-hit-off ran spinning his legs into one for an impossible catch;
and the batsmen were running and stretching bats, and the ball flying
away, flying back, and others after it, and still the batsmen running,
till it seemed that the ball had escaped control and was leading the
fielders on a coltish innings of its own, defiant of bowlers.

Diana said merrily: 'Bravo our side!'

'Bravo, old Tom Redworth'; rejoined Sir Lukin. 'Four, and a three! And
capital weather, haven't we: Hope we shall have same sort day next
month--return match, my ground. I've seen Tom Redworth score--old
days--over two hundred t' his bat. And he used to bowl too. But bowling
wants practice. And, Emmy, look at the old fellows lining the booth, pipe
in mouth and cheering. They do enjoy a day like this. We'll have a supper
for fifty at Copsley's:--it's fun. By Jove! we must have reached up to
near the hundred.'

He commissioned a neighbouring boy to hie to the booth for the latest
figures, and his emissary taught lightning a lesson.

Diana praised the little fellow.

'Yes, he's a real English boy,' said Emma.

'We 've thousands of 'em, thousands, ready to your hand,' exclaimed Sir
Lukin, 'and a confounded Radicalized country . . .' he murmured gloomily
of 'lets us be kicked! . . . any amount of insult, meek as gruel! . . .
ma