is habits, having been a
herring-fisher the best part of his life; but being a martyr to the
rheumatism, which occasionally screwed him up into indescribable forms,
had betaken himself to earning a precarious subsistence as he could on
shore. It was not often that we required his services between breakfast
and luncheon, but one morning, after having dispatched Gwenny in all
directions to hunt for Bill Thomas in vain, we at last elicited from her
that "may-be she was gone with Mr Dawson." Then it came out, to our
infinite amusement, that Dawson was in the habit, occasionally, of
impressing our factotum Bill to carry bat, stumps, and ball down to the
marsh, and there commencing private practice on his own account.

Mr Sydney Dawson and Bill Thomas--the sublime and the
ridiculous--amalgamating at cricket, was far too good a joke to lose; so
we got Hanmer to cut his lecture short, and come down with us to the
scene of action. From the cover of a sandbank, we had a view of all that
was going on in the plain below. There was our friend at the wicket,
with his coat off, and the grey spectacles on, in an attitude which it
must have taken him some study to accomplish, and Bill, with the ball in
his hand, vociferating "Plaiy." A ragged urchin behind the wicket,
attempting to bag the balls as Dawson missed them in what had once been
a hat, and Sholto looking on with an air of mystification, completed the
picture.

"That's too slow," said Sydney, as Bill, after some awful contortions,
at length delivered himself of what he called "a cast." "_Diawl!_" said
Bill, _sotto voce_, as he again got possession of the ball. "That's too
high," was the complaint, as with an extraordinary kind of jerk, it
flew some yards over the batsman's head, and took what remained of the
crown out of the little lazzaroni's hat behind. "_Diawl!_" quoth Bill
again, apologetically, "She got too much way on her that time." Bill was
generally pretty wide of his mark, and great appeared to be the
satisfaction of all parties when Dawson contrived to make a hit, and
Sholto and the boy set off after the ball, while the striker leaned with
elegant _nonchalance_ upon his bat, and Bill mopped his face, and gave
vent to a complimentary varety of "Diawl." It was really a pity to
interrupt the performance; but we did at last. Bill looked rather
ashamed of his share in the business when he saw "Mishtar," as he called
Hanmer; but Dawson's self-complacency and good-humour c