A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 235 



anxious edge off the day before we are called upon 

 to bat. 



The game is not eventful : the wickets fall at fairly 

 regular intervals for about four runs apiece. Bob 

 brings off a couple of good catches, and is out leg- 

 before for two in our first innings. About three o'clock, 

 after a wasp-haunted lunch in the flapping tent, a 

 lunch at which we consume enough aerated waters to 

 inflate All England, Arnington is going in for the 

 second time, to get thirty-five runs to win the match. 

 The Buckfield bowling on its native heath is really 

 murderous, and six wickets fall for eighteen runs in 

 half an hour. Then Bob goes in and saves the game. 

 We sit about on the hard forms, the afternoon sun 

 strong on our shoulder-blades, and realise the beauty of 

 the game. There is by this time quite a little fringe 

 of spectators round the field : the Vicar comes by 

 and stops to watch the play ; the school-children 

 troop out and sprawl in the grass close to long-on's 

 legs ; a pair of dashing bays champ and paw at the 

 roadside, while the garden-party hats and parasols 

 behind them perceptibly stimulate the fielders. Bob 

 plays forward again and again, ducks to the bumping 

 horrors, swipes the leg balls, and runs like a hare ; 

 but no one stays with him ; and it comes to the last 



