hush to say, "No, no trial." Austin glances round at the
motionless figures of his comrades, signals to _long-on_ to stand a
little deeper, and then delivers the ball. With an easy and graceful
forward stroke, the batsman returns it sharply in the direction of the
opposite wicket, and an almost imperceptible movement, like the
releasing of a spring, takes place among the fielders. So begins
the battle.

"Twenty up!" had just been called from the pavilion when a sharp catch
in the slips disposed of Parkes.

"Never mind!" cried "Rats." "Here comes old Ally; he'll make them trot
round a bit!"

The captain commenced his innings with a heart-warming leg hit, which
sent the ball to the boundary, a wave of legs and arms marking its track
as the spectators, with a joyous yell, rolled over one another to escape
being hit.

For some time cheer followed cheer, and "The Happy Family" clapped until
their hands smarted; then suddenly there arose a prolonged "_Oh, oh!_"
from all the field.

"Hullo! what's the matter?" asked Bibbs, looking up from the book he was
reading.

"What's the matter?" shouted Maxton wrathfully, snatching away the
volume and banging Bibbs on the head with it. "Why don't you watch the
game? Old Ally's bowled off his pads!"

It was only too true: the captain's wicket was down, and "The Happy
Family," after a simultaneous ejaculation of "_Blow it!_" tore up stalks
of grass, and began to chew them with a stern expression on their faces.

This disaster seemed but the forerunner of others. Redfern, the next
man, had hardly taken his place at the wicket when a sharp _click_, the
glitter of bails twirling in the air, and a Wraxby shout of "Well
bowled!" announced his fate; while ten minutes later Rowland, one of the
mainstays of the home team, was caught in a most provoking manner at
_cover-point_.

"Oh, bother it all!" sighed "Rats;" "this is nothing but a procession."

"Now, Oaks, old chap, do your best for us!" cried Allingford.

"All right," returned the other, laughing, as he paused for a moment
outside the pavilion to fasten the strap of his batting-glove; "I'm
going to make runs this journey, or die in the attempt."

Oaks was undoubtedly a regular Briton, just the sort of fellow to turn
the fortunes of a losing game. He walked up to the wicket as coolly as
though it were enclosed within a practice net, patted down the ground
with the flat of his bat in a manner which seemed to imply that