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314 Providence and the weather, that makes the averages. Fuller Pilch’s fifties was worth your two hundreds, every bit!”

When Davie returned to the committee room, after an hour’s conversation with the discontented professionals, he was obliged to confess that they were still obdurate, and had firmly resolved to remain on strike until their terms were granted. The committee was in a state of great dismay, and Swears, the secretary, made use of some powerful language.

“Nice show we shall make against Yorkshire to-morrow,” he thundered; “I’m darn’t if we can make up a respectable team.”

“If I thought it were that bad, sir,” said Davie, insinuatingly, “I’d play myself.”

The committee smiled, for it was a relief to see a little humour in the situation. Davie was fifty-seven, and it was ten years since he had played in his last county match.

“Jove, that’s a ripping idea!” roared Swears, with a lusty laugh. “It’d be a rare slap in the face for that skunk Twister.”

The amused expressions on the faces of the gentlemen of the committee did not please the elderly groundsman, who was a man of pride, and still played on Saturday afternoon.

“If I may be bold enough to say so,” he remarked. “I’m not an old duffer yet, gentlemen. I made forty-three last week for the Club and Ground v. Upper Tappleton.”

“Why, you’re in your prime, Davie,” Swears exclaimed; “and we’ll play you to-morrow against Yorkshire!”

Though the secretary was merely joking, and had no intention of putting the old groundsman into the eleven, Davie, being blessed with a “guid conceit,” thought that he was serious, and left the committee room a very proud and happy man. He hurried home to the wife of his bosom; and, after a hearty tea, drank one more glass of whiskey and smoked three more pipes than usual before retiring to bed. He had just dozed off, when he was awakened by a loud “rat-tat” at the street door. Raising himself on his elbow, he had a short and successful struggle with sleep.

“Some o’ them striking pro.’s want me, I reckon,” he growled.

The knocker went again more vigorously than before.

His wife was slumbering peacefully; so slinking out of bed quietly, for he belonged to the numerous tribe of Caudle, Davie stumbled downstairs into the front room, and unlocked the door.

“What d’ye want at this blessed time?” he growled, as he peered outside.

“Let me in, and I will tell you,” exclaimed a sepulchral voice from the darkness.

Then the door was pushed back, and an old man with grey whiskers entered. He had an ancient-looking tall hat, and wore a long black cloak. There was something so uncanny in his appearance that Davie felt nervous. He was commencing some remark about the stranger having the advantage of him, when he was interrupted.

“You are David Tofts, the groundsman,” said the old man hoarsely, turning a steely pair of eyes upon Davie.

Just then there was a “ghost” in the candle, and the light burnt very dim.

“That’s my name and profession,” replied Davie, feeling very uncomfortable, though he knew not why.

The intruder gave a guttural expression of satisfaction, and threw off his cloak. To his intense surprise, Davie saw that the old man was dressed in cricket flannels! He flashed a startled glance upon the tall silk hat, the tight woollen vest with its collar and tie, the braces over the shoulders; and his hair stood on end.

It was such a costume that cricketers used to wear fifty years ago, and his visitor was the very image of old Fuller Pilch!

“Who are you?” faltered Davie, with trembling lips.

“A friend,” was the answer. “You are going to play in the great match against Yorkshire to-morrow?”

“How d’you know?” demanded Davie anxiously.

“That’s no concern of yours,” returned the uncanny old gentleman; “I’ve brought you a valuable present,” and fumbling beneath his cloak he brought forth a cricket bat.

“This is for you,” he mumbled, holding it out.

“I’ve a dozen,” retorted Davie, trying to pluck up courage, but still feeling awed.

“You must play with it to-morrow,” exclaimed the old man, in a commanding voice. “This bat belonged to Fuller Pilch!”

The room seemed to turn topsy-turvy for a minute, and when Davie had recovered his senses the front door was shut and the old fellow had disappeared. Just at that moment he fancied he heard his wife calling to him, so he went upstairs. Scarcely had he laid his head upon the pillow than he fell asleep.

When he awoke again his better half was shaking and scolding him, and the clock was striking nine.

He jumped out of bed, and hurried into his clothes, for it was two hours later than his usual time for rising. The sensation when one awakes after an interview with a ghost the previous evening can never be a pleasant one, and Davie toddled downstairs in a very