e road to Fallow field, was
wrong in saying that Beckley would be seen out before the shades of
evening caught up the ball. Not one, but two men of Beckley--the last
two--carried out their bats, cheered handsomely by both parties. The
wickets pitched in the morning, they carried them in again, and plaudits
renewed proved that their fame had not slumbered. To stand before a
field, thoroughly aware that every successful stroke you make is adding
to the hoards of applause in store for you is a joy to your friends, an
exasperation to your foes; I call this an exciting situation, and one as
proud as a man may desire. Then, again, the two last men of an eleven are
twins: they hold one life between them; so that he who dies extinguishes
the other. Your faculties are stirred to their depths. You become engaged
in the noblest of rivalries: in defending your own, you fight for your
comrade's existence. You are assured that the dread of shame, if not
emulation, is making him equally wary and alert.

Behold, then, the two bold men of Beckley fighting to preserve one life.
Under the shadow of the downs they stand, beneath a glorious day, and
before a gallant company. For there are ladies in carriages here, there
are cavaliers; good county names may be pointed out. The sons of
first-rate families are in the two elevens, mingled with the yeomen and
whoever can best do the business. Fallow field and Beckley, without
regard to rank, have drawn upon their muscle and science. One of the bold
men of Beckley at the wickets is Nick Frim, son of the gamekeeper at
Beckley Court; the other is young Tom Copping, son of Squire Copping, of
Dox Hall, in the parish of Beckley. Last year, you must know, Fallow
field beat. That is why Nick Frim, a renowned out-hitter, good to finish
a score brilliantly with a pair of threes, has taken to blocking, and Mr.
Tom cuts with caution, though he loves to steal his runs, and is usually
dismissed by his remarkable cunning.

The field was ringing at a stroke of Nick Frim's, who had lashed out in
his old familiar style at last, and the heavens heard of it, when Evan
came into the circle of spectators. Nick and Tom were stretching from
post to post, might and main. A splendid four was scored. The field took
breath with the heroes; and presume not to doubt that heroes they are. It
is good to win glory for your country; it is also good to win glory for
your village. A Member of Parliament, Sir George Lowton, notes t