If, during practice, a fellow bowled, batted, or fielded well, Steel took care to encourage him; but if any one played carelessly, or bungled, Steel scowled, and that unlucky man's name disappeared for a season from the list of candidates for a place in the first eleven.
See him now stroll up to the wickets, with his wicket-keeping pads on, talking on the way to one of the two men who are to officiate first with their bats on behalf of Westfield.
We youngsters can't understand such coolness, and keep our eyes on him, as if every moment we expected to see him fell his rival to the earth.
It's a great matter to be used to a thing.

I, who was now making my first appearance in the first eleven, felt as if the world began, continued, and ended within the area of this Westfield meadow; but here was some one who, to all appearances, made no more of the great match than he would of his dinner.
But away now with all thoughts but cricket! The ball we have been tossing about idly is taken into custody by the umpire; Steel is behind the wickets, looking round to see if we fielders are all in our places, and motioning one or two of us to stand deeper or closer in, as he deems advisable.

The Westfield batsman who is to receive the first over is getting "middle"; our bowler is tucking up his sleeves, and gripping the brand-new ball in his hand; the ground-keeper is chasing a few small boys back behind the ropes; and the scorers in the big tent are dipping their pens in the ink.
Altogether, it is a critical moment in my life--a moment that seems as long as a whole day.
"Play!" cries the umpire; and our bowler delivers his first ball--not a very alarming one, and evidently meant more as a test of the ball and the pitch than as a serious attack on the enemy's wicket.

My readers of course do not expect me to give a full, true, and particular account of every ball bowled on that eventful day.

That would be as tedious for them as for me.