ew to harry a
left-handed batsman. Jim came over with his long, swinging walk, his
head a little bent. He started a little at his friend's voice.

"You'll snore soon!" said Wally, incisively. "What on earth's the
matter with you? Play up, School!"

Jim stopped short a moment--and burst out laughing, Wally's indignant
face glanced back over his shoulder as he ran off. There was a new
spring in the bowler's walk as he went to his crease, and the smile
still lingered.

The left-handed man faced him confidently--not many local bowlers could
trouble him much, and being a large and well-whiskered gentleman, the
tall schoolboy opposite to him sent no thrill of fear through his soul.
But Jim had learned a thing or two at school about left-handed bats. He
took a short run.

On returning to the pavilion the whiskered one admitted that he knew
really nothing about the ball. It seemed to come from nowhere, and curl
about his bat as he lifted it to strike. How the bails came off was a
mystery to him, though it was unfortunately beyond question that they
had not remained on. The left-hander removed his pads, ruminating.

Cunjee, meanwhile, had cheered frantically, and Wally sent a School
yell ringing down the field. Jim's eye lit up anew as he heard it.

"I do believe I've been asleep," he muttered.

The new man was waiting for him, and he treated his first two balls
with respect. Then he grew bolder; hit him for a single, and snicked
him to the fence for four. There was a perceptible droop in the Cunjee
spirits at the boundary hit. Then Jim bowled the last ball of the over,
and there was a composite yell from Cunjee as the Mulgoa man pushed the
ball gently into the air just over Dr. Anderson's head. The little
doctor was pitifully hot, but he did not fail. The Mulgoa batsman
returned to his friends.

Dan Billings was a little worried. Much, he felt, depended on him, and
he had never been more comfortably set; but his men--would they be as
reliable? He decided to hit out, and Mulgoa roared as the hundred went
up for a beautiful boundary hit. Six wickets were down, and Mulgoa was
107 at the end of the over. It seemed safe enough.

Jim took the ball again, his fingers pressing the red surface almost
lovingly. He had quite waked up; his head was buzzing with "theories,"
and his old power seemed to have come back to his fingers. The first
ball came with a beautiful leg-break, and the Mulgoan bat swiped at it
wildly, and vainly