How far a little good-nature from their elders will go with the right sort of boys! The morning had dawned bright and warm, to the intense relief of many an anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the weather.

The eleven went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the cold bath in a corner of the close.

The ground was in splendid order, and soon after ten o'clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready, and two of the Lord's men took their places at the wickets--the School, with the usual liberality of young hands, having put their adversaries in first.

Old Bailey stepped up to the wicket, and called play, and the match has begun.
"Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!" cries the captain, catching up the ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while the third Marylebone man walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely sets up the middle stump again and puts the bails on.
"How many runs ?" Away scamper three boys to the scoring table, and are back again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are collected together in a knot between wicket.

"Only eighteen runs, and three wickets down!" "Huzza for old Rugby!" sings out Jack Raggles, the long-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called "Swiper Jack," and forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air in triumph, till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him over on to his back.
"Steady there; don't be such an ass, Jack," says the captain; "we haven't got the best wicket yet.