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Rh “Oh, we know all right,” retorted Tim. “We know that you didn’t make all them runs!”

“Then who did?” cried Davie, defiantly.

“Why, old Fuller Pilch!” answered Tim, with a look of bitter malice.

Davie staggered, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet.

“Ay, and that’s Fuller Pilch’s bat you’ve got,” shouted Tim. “Here, give it up!”

And he caught hold of the blade.

A fierce struggle followed. Both Tim and Davie pulled with all their might. But youth must be served, and in less than a minute the mutinous young professional had wrenched the magic bat from the grasp of the old groundsman.

His brother professionals closed around to let him make good his escape, and in an instant he had disappeared among the crowd that had collected at the sight of the disturbance. It was the work of a moment; and poor Davie, breathless and dismayed, was left without his treasure.

“Hi, stop thief!” he murmured, faintly.

“Now then, Davie,” cried the voice of Swears at his elbow. “I’ve been looking for you. Come along with me to the committee room. The president of the club wants to be introduced to you; he’s fairly cracked about your batting. And, by Jove, you are an old marvel!”

“They’ve stolen my bat,” cried poor Davie, distractedly.

“Nonsense, man; we’ll give you a dozen,” replied Swears. “Come along.”

And taking him by the arm he led him away.

During the whole of the luncheon interval Davie remained in a half-demented condition, and was scarcely conscious of what was passing around him, for the loss of his magic bat had been a fearful shock. When play commenced again he went into the field very listless and inert, and he seemed to have no further interest in the game.

One of the first two batsmen on the Yorkshire side was the celebrated stonewaller Philip House, and his usual average speed of run-getting was about ten notches an hour. It was therefore a fearful and wonderful surprise to Davie when he began by making seven fours in his first two overs. But he was not contented with that. He continued to lay about him in terrible style, and made mincemeat of the bowling. In a quarter of an hour he had scored fifty, and among these were three splendid sixes out of the ground. As a display of batting it almost rivalled that of Davie.

“You’re merrier nor usual to-day,” remarked the crestfallen Davie, strolling up to the ex-stonewaller between one of the overs.

“Ay, I seem to be tapping ’em a bit,” replied the late blocker, “I can’t make it out. It must be this new bat o’ mine that suits me.”

“New! It looks old enough,” said Davie, with a casual glance.

“That’s true; but it’s new to me,” answered the ex-stonewaller.

Davie looked down curiously at the string-bound blade, and in an instant the truth flashed upon him.

“You got it from Tim Twister,” he roared.

“Well, what of that?”

“Give it up; it’s mine.”

And the furious Davie rushed upon the astonished Philip, and tried to wrest the willow out of his hands. For most unmistakably it was the bat that old Fuller Pilch had given to him!

They swayed and struggled and fought. The dismayed spectators rose around the ring, and shouted with frenzy. The cricketers crowded around the two combatants and lent their voices to the tumult. Davie gave them no heed, but fought on. At last with a desperate effort he overthrew his opponent, snatched the bat from his grasp, and as the defeated stonewaller lay upon the ground he raised the blade aloft to bring it down upon his skull.

Then suddenly all went dark, and presently a dim confused light seemed to struggle into his eyes. He awoke to find himself upon the floor of his bedroom!

“Dearie, dearie, this is too shocking,” babbled a familiar voice, and he saw the face of his wife bending over him. “I told you, Davie, what that extra glass would do for you.”

Davie picked himself up, still half asleep, and very bewildered.

“Is the Yorkshire match over?” was the first question he asked.

“Davie, this is awful,” said his wife. “Why, you know it begins to-day!”

“What time is it?” was Davie’s next inquiry.

“It’s almost nine o’clock,” replied Mrs. Davie, tartly; “and I’ve scarcely had a wink o’ sleep all night for your snoring.”

“Then, it were all a dream about old Fuller Pilch!” muttered Davie, half aside.

“I don’t know,” answered his wife severely. “But that Mr. Tim Twister’s just called, Davie; and he says he’d like to see you when you think proper to come downstairs.”

The old groundsman felt a keen pang of disappointment. It had been such a vivid