fatal return match some years ago at S--, our neighbours south-by-east,
had luckily, in a remove of a quarter of a mile last Lady Day, crossed
the boundaries of his old parish and actually belonged to us. Here was a
stroke of good fortune! Our captain applied to him instantly, and he
agreed at a word. We felt we had half gained the match when we had
secured him. Then James Brown, a journeyman blacksmith and a native,
who, being of a rambling disposition, had roamed from place to place for
half a dozen years, had just returned to our village with a prodigious
reputation in cricket and gallantry. To him also went the indefatigable
William Grey, and he also consented to play. Having thus secured two
powerful auxiliaries, we began to reckon the regular forces.

Thus ran our list. William Grey, 1; Samuel Long, 2; James Brown, 3;
George and John Simmons, one capital, the other so-so--an uncertain
hitter, but a good fieldsman, 5; Joel Brent, excellent, 6; Ben
Appleton--here was a little pause, for Ben's abilities at cricket were
not completely ascertained, but then he was a good fellow, so full of
fun and waggery! No doing without Ben. So he figured in the list as 7.
George Harris--a short halt there too--slowish, but sure, 8; Tom
Coper--oh, beyond the world Tom Coper, the red-headed gardening lad,
whose left-handed strokes send _her_ (a cricket-ball is always of the
feminine gender) send her spinning a mile, 9; Harry Willis, another
blacksmith, 10.

We had now ten of our eleven, but the choice of the last occasioned some
demur. John Strong, a nice youth--everybody likes John Strong--was the
next candidate, but he is so tall and limp that we were all afraid his
strength, in spite of his name, would never hold out. So the eve of the
match arrived and the post was still vacant, when a little boy of
fifteen, David Willis, brother to Harry, admitted by accident to the
last practice, saw eight of them out, and was voted in by acclamation.

Morning dawned. On calling over our roll, Brown was missing; and it
transpired that he had set off at four o'clock in the morning to play in
a cricket match at M----, a little town twelve miles off, which had been
his last residence. Here was desertion! Here was treachery! How we cried
him down! We were well rid of him, for he was no batter compared with
William Grey; not fit to wipe the shoes of Samuel Long as a bowler; the
boy David Willis was worth fifty of him. So we took tall John Strong.