first ball, and smote it over the ring. His first three overs from the fast bowler realised thirty-six runs, and the dense masses around the arena roared with applause. There was no need for caution—he was invincible. The cricket ball was entirely at the mercy of Fuller Pilch’s marvellous bat! He cut, he drove, he hooked—the pace was terrible. The fielders flew about the field like torreadors in a bull ring; bowler after bowler was knocked off his length. Batsmen came and went, for the wicket was treacherous; but old Davie remained unconquered, and when the last man of his side was bowled shortly before the luncheon bell rang he had made 150 not out!
He had reached the pavilion enclosure, after a march of triumph from the wickets in the midst of a shouting throng, when his colleague of the ground staff came up and, after slapping him on the back, whispered:
“There’s a pal of yours outside wants a word with you.”
Without troubling to take off his pads or put on his coat, Davie, with his bat under his
“‘TIM TWISTER,’ THUNDERED BAILS, ‘YOU’RE A BLACKLEG!’” (p. 318).
arm, strolled outside among the crowd to look for his friend, and he had not walked more than a dozen yards from the gate of the enclosure when he encountered Tim Twister and the five other mutineers.
“Well, you chaps have a cheek to come in here!” cried Davie, aghast at their effrontery.
“And you’ve got a cheek, too, Davie, to Play under such false pretences,” retorted Tim, with a very vicious glance.
“And all the folk saying, too, that such an innings has never been played on a cricket ground,” growled Daddy Longlegs, with evident spite.
“It’s cursed cheating,” roared Bails, ferociously. “If the M.C.C. get to know, they’ll suspend you, like they does t’ jockeys.”
“Yes, you’d be warned off the turf.”
“What the dickens d’ you mean?” demanded poor Davie, very much astonished.
“You know well enough,” cried the crack bat, furiously. “You’ve no right to that innings. It weren’t yours!”
“Whose was it then?” asked Davie, growing very uncomfortable.
