bowler on you're bound to get a wicket. Why on earth didn't I go on
before, Norris?'

'You wait,' said Norris, 'there are five more balls of the over to
come.'

'Bad job for the batsman,' said Marriott.

There had been time for a run before the ball reached Pringle, so that
the novelist was now at the batting end. Marriott's next ball was not
unlike his first, but it was straighter, and consequently easier to get
at. The novelist hit it into the road. When it had been brought back he
hit it into the road again. Marriott suggested that he had better have
a man there.

The fourth ball of the over was too wide to hit with any comfort, and
the batsman let it alone. The fifth went for four to square leg, almost
killing the umpire on its way, and the sixth soared in the old familiar
manner into the road again. Marriott's over had yielded exactly
twenty-two runs. Four to win and two wickets to fall.

'I'll never read another of that man's books as long as I live,' said
Marriott to Gosling, giving him the ball. 'You're our only hope, Sammy.
Do go in and win.'

The new batsman had the bowling. He snicked his first ball for a
single, bringing the novelist to the fore again, and Samuel Wilberforce
Gosling vowed a vow that he would dismiss that distinguished novelist.

But the best intentions go for nothing when one's arm is feeling like