But no: they rest content with a fiver and cherish their wind.
Yet more they mean to do, Success does not turn the heads of these Britons, as it would of your frivolous foreigners.
And now small boys (who represent the Press here) spread out from the marking-booth, announcing foremost, and in larger type, as it were, quite in Press style, their opinion--which is, that Fallow field will get a jolly good hiding; and vociferating that Beckley is seventy-nine ahead, and that Nick Frim, the favourite of the field, has scored fifty-one to his own cheek.

The boys are boys of both villages: but they are British boys--they adore prowess.

The Fallow field boys wish that Nick Frim would come and live on their side; the boys of Beckley rejoice in possessing him.

Nick is the wicketkeeper of the Beckley eleven; long-limbed, wiry, keen of eye.

His fault as a batsman is, that he will be a slashing hitter.