110 THE PICKWICK CLUB. such individual in such denunciations—as "Ah, ah!—stupid ""Now, butter-fingers"—"Muff"—" Humbug"—and so forth—ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game of cricket.
"Capital game—well played—some strokes admirable," said the stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.
"You have played it, sir?" inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by his loquacity.
"Played it! Think I have—thousands of times—not here—West Indies—exciting thing—hot work—very."
"'It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate," observed Mr. Pickwick.
"Warm!—red hot—scorching—glowing. Played a match once single wicket—friend the Colonel—Sir Thomas Blazo —who should get the greatest number of runs.—Won the toss—first innings—seven o'clock a.m.—six natives to look out—went in; kept in—heat intense—natives all faintedtaken away—fresh half—dozen ordered—fainted also—Blazo bowling—supported by two natives—couldn't bowl me out—fainted too—cleared away the Colonel—wouldn't give infaithful attendant—Quanko Samba—last man left—sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched brown—five hundred and seventy runs—rather exhausted—Quanko mustered up last remaining strength—bowled me out—had a bath, and went out to dinner."
"And what became of what's—his—name, sir?" inquired an old gentleman.
"Blazo?"
"No—the other gentleman."
"Quanko Samba?"
"Yes, sir."
"Poor Quanko—never recovered it—bowled on, on my account—bowled off, on his own—died, sir." Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide
