Not one, but two men of Beckley--the last two--carried out their bats, cheered handsomely by both parties.

The wickets pitched in the morning, they carried them in again, and plaudits renewed proved that their fame had not slumbered.

To stand before a field, thoroughly aware that every successful stroke you make is adding to the hoards of applause in store for you is a joy to your friends, an exasperation to your foes; I call this an exciting situation, and one as proud as a man may desire.

Then, again, the two last men of an eleven are twins: they hold one life between them; so that he who dies extinguishes the other.

Your faculties are stirred to their depths.