ore the first match of the season, with his pocket
full of sovereigns, which he put on the stumps instead of bails. It
was a sight to see the professionals bowling like demons for the hard
cash, for whenever a stump was hit a pound was tossed to the bowler and
another balanced in its stead, while one man took #3 with a ball that
spreadeagled the wicket. Raffles's practice cost him either eight or
nine sovereigns; but he had absolutely first-class bowling all the
time; and he made fifty-seven runs next day.

It became my pleasure to accompany him to all his matches, to watch
every ball he bowled, or played, or fielded, and to sit chatting with
him in the pavilion when he was doing none of these three things. You
might have seen us there, side by side, during the greater part of the
Gentlemen's first innings against the Players (who had lost the toss)
on the second Monday in July. We were to be seen, but not heard, for
Raffles had failed to score, and was uncommonly cross for a player who
cared so little for the game. Merely taciturn with me, he was
positively rude to more than one member who wanted to know how it had
happened, or who ventured to commiserate him on his luck; there he sat,
with a straw hat tilted over his nose and a cigarette stuck between
lips that curled disagreeably at every advance. I was therefore much
surprised when a young fellow of the exquisite type came and squeezed
himself in between us, and met with a perfectly civil reception despite
the liberty. I did not know the boy by sight, nor did Raffles
introduce us; but their conversation proclaimed at once a slightness of
acquaintanceship and a license on the lad's part which combined to
puzzle me. Mystification reached its height when Raffles was informed
that the other's father was anxious to meet him, and he instantly
consented to gratify that whim.

"He's in the Ladies' Enclosure. Will you come round now?"

"With pleasure," says Raffles. "Keep a place for me, Bunny."

And they were gone.

"Young Crowley," said some voice further back. "Last year's Harrow
Eleven."

"I remember him. Worst man in the team."

"Keen cricketer, however. Stopped till he was twenty to get his
colors. Governor made him. Keen breed. Oh, pretty, sir! Very
pretty!"

The game was boring me. I only came to see old Raffles perform. Soon
I was looking wistfully for his return, and at length I saw him
beckoning me from the palings to the right.

"Wa