Driver, the captain of the Westfield eleven, was at the wickets, a most tremendous hitter.

All bowling came alike to him.

The swifter the ball the happier he was; sending one over the bowler's head, another nearly into the scorers' tent, another among the spectators behind the ropes.

The score, hitherto so slow, began to fly up.

Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy we saw posted up in rapid succession, and wondered how it all would end.
He seemed to have as many lives as a cat.