e
unparallelled.

Ginger stopped. The interest of the spectacle pierced his absorption in
the business he had in hand. Such a thing was almost unprecedented.

"What's up?" he asked of Puggy Phillips.

Puggy Phillips--hazarding his life by standing on the shiny, slightly
curved top of his butcher's cart--made no appropriate answer.
"Yah--_ah_--AH!" he screamed in ecstasy. "Oh! played! Pla-a-a-ayed!!"

Ginger wasted no more breath, but laid hold of the little brass rail
that encircled Puggy's platform, and with a sudden hoist that lifted the
shafts and startled the pony, raised himself to the level of a
spectator.

"'Ere!" shouted the swaying, tottering Puggy. "What the ... are yer rup
to?"

The well-drilled pony, however, settled down again quietly to maintain
his end of the see-saw, and, finding himself still able to preserve his
equilibrium, Puggy instantly forgot the presence of the intruder.

"What's up?" asked Ginger again.

"Oh! Well _'it_, WELL 'IT!" yelled Puggy. "Oh! Gow on, gow on agen! Run
it _aht_. Run it AH-T."

Ginger gave it up, and turned his attention to the match.

It was not any famous struggle that was being fought out on the old
Ailesworth Ground; it was only second-class cricket, the deciding match
of the Minor Counties championship. Hampdenshire and Oxfordshire, old
rivals, had been neck-and-neck all through the season, and, as luck
would have it, the engagement between them had been the last fixture on
the card.

When Ginger rose to the level of spectator, the match was anybody's
game. Bobby Maisefield was batting. He was then a promising young colt
who had not earned a fixed place in the Eleven. Ginger knew him
socially, but they were not friends, they had no interests in common.
Bobby had made twenty-seven. He was partnered by old Trigson, the
bowler, (he has been dead these eight years,) whose characteristic score
of "Not out ... 0," is sufficiently representative of his methods.

It was the fourth innings, and Hampdenshire with only one more wicket to
fall, still required nineteen runs to win. Trigson could be relied upon
to keep his wicket up, but not to score. The hopes of Ailesworth centred
in the ability of that almost untried colt Bobby Maisefield--and he
seemed likely to justify the trust reposed in him. A beautiful late cut
that eluded third man and hit the fence with a resounding bang, nearly
drove Puggy wild with delight.

"Only fifteen more," he shouted. "Oh! Played;