wicket like this. I have studied cricket all my life'--till that summer
it is improbable that Mr Smith had ever handled a bat--'and I know a
first-class batsman when I see one. I've seen your brothers play. Pooh,
you're better than any of them. That century of yours against the Green
Jackets was a wonderful innings, wonderful. Now look here, my boy. I
want you to be careful. We've a lot of runs to make, so we mustn't take
any risks. Hit plenty of boundaries, of course, but be careful.
Careful. Dash it, there's a youngster trying to climb up the elm. He'll
break his neck. It's young Giles, my keeper's boy. Hi! Hi, there!'

He scudded out to avert the tragedy, leaving Mike to digest his expert
advice on the art of batting on bad wickets.

Possibly it was the excellence of this advice which induced Mike to
play what was, to date, the best innings of his life. There are moments
when the batsman feels an almost super-human fitness. This came to Mike
now. The sun had begun to shine strongly. It made the wicket more
difficult, but it added a cheerful touch to the scene. Mike felt calm
and masterful. The bowling had no terrors for him. He scored nine off
his first over and seven off his second, half-way through which he lost
his partner. He was to undergo a similar bereavement several times that
afternoon, and at frequent intervals. However simple the bowling might
seem to him, it had enough sting in it to worry the rest of the team
considerably. Batsmen came and went at the other end with such rapidity
that it seemed hardly worth while their troubling to come in at all.
Every now and then one would give promise of better things by lifting
the slow bowler into the pavilion or over the boundary, but it always
happened that a similar stroke, a few balls later, ended in an easy
catch. At five o'clock the Ilsworth score was eighty-one for seven
wickets, last man nought, Mike not out fifty-nine. As most of the house