off what we can do. Of course we don't pretend to play cricket in the fine, graceful form you are familiar with; but we get there, just the same. We are not much in practice, but we are great in matches."
It happened that our first contest at cricket was with the famous Marylebone "All-English" eleven, the finest cricketers in England. The game opened with the Britishers at bat. We had so many men in the field that it seemed impossible that any balls could get away, and yet, at the close of the afternoon's play, the Englishmen had scored 105 runs in their inning. Next day the game was resumed, with two of our three cricketers—Harry Wright and McBride—first at bat. Harry went out on the first ball bowled, and, after making two runs, McBride followed suit. I followed Wright, and Anson took McBride's place.
In cricket, as I knew, the duty of the batter is to defend his wicket and prevent it being bowled over. Incidentally, he is expected to hit the ball and make some runs, and, whether in defending his wicket or making his runs, he is expected to play gracefully and in "good form." I shall not undertake here to explain what "good form" requires. I gave no thought whatever to the gracefulness of my posing or to anything else than making points. The first ball that threatened my wicket I knocked over the fence, outside the grounds, and the umpire shouted: "Four runs; you needn't leave your place on a hit like that."
I had been accustomed to bat with a small, round ash club, and with the great board paddle now in my hands it
