Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for years, and the cheering is maddening.

"Pretty cricket," says the captain, throwing himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath.

He feels that a crisis has passed.
I wish I had space to describe the match--how the captain stumped the next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old Mr.Aislabie, who came in for the last wicket; how the Lord's men were out by half-past twelve o'clock for ninety-eight runs; how the captain of the School eleven went in first to give his men pluck, and scored twenty-five in beautiful style; how Rugby was only four behind in the first innings; what a glorious dinner they had in the fourth-form school; and how the cover-point hitter sang the most topping comic songs, and old Mr.Aislabie made the best speeches that ever were heard, afterwards.

But I haven't space--that's the fact; and so you must fancy it all, and carry yourselves on to half-past seven o'clock, when the School are again in, with five wickets down, and only thirty-two runs to make to win.

The Marylebone men played carelessly in their second innings, but they are working like horses now to save the match.
There is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and down the close; but the group to which I beg to call your especial attention is there, on the slope of the island, which looks towards the cricket-ground.