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440 presented a far more animated scene. The great match had attracted all the countryside, and enthusiasts had come from far and near. From an early hour the top-booted gentry had been arriving on horseback and in well-loaded traps, and not a farmer could have been found upon his land for miles around. The “King’s Arms” was doing a roaring trade, and its stable yard was crowded.

The group of farmers around the broad table at the side of the cricket field, where the drink was served and on which there lay a goodly stack of long pipes and a stout tobacco box, increased every minute.

The first arrivals appropriated all the available chairs and smoked stolidly, as they drank their rummers of brandy and water, and discussed the chances of the day’s match. But all found something to smoke and drink, whether they got a chair or not, and nearly every one of them laid his wager while waiting for the play to begin.

“Who’s matched Sampley?” cried Farmer Giles, a great bowler of former times, lighting his pipe at the lanthorn which an obsequious stable boy from the “King’s Arms” was holding for him.

“Lord Jeffry from the north, so they say,” returned a maltster of some importance.

“Then he’ll lose his five hundred guineas,” answered Farmer Giles, with a contemptuous puff. “I’ve laid seven to two myself on Hamble Green!”

“They’re saying Lord Jeffry’s backed Sampley for a large amount besides,” said a local innkeeper. “He’s a deep ’un, he is; I know him.”

At this moment a smart carriage and pair swept along the Sampley road past the booth and drew up in front of the “King’s Arms.” Two persons were seated inside. A young man fashionably attired in a swallow-tailed coat, with an ample neck-cloth of bright blue, and a cricketer in flannels, who wore the regulation tall hat.

“Hullo, that’s young Lord Jeffry and Notchy Wood, or I’m a Dutchman,” cried the innkeeper, pointing to the pair, who were just alighting from the carriage.

“What does he want with our Notchy?” growled Farmer Giles, suspiciously. “He’d like to square him, no doubt.”

“Notchy’s not a man o’ that sort,” exclaimed the maltster emphatically.

As Lord Jeffry’s carriage drew up before the village inn, a handsome, cheery-faced young man was coming out of the door.

“What, Jack,” he cried with delight. “They said you were not coming. But I knew you’d be here to have a run for your money.”

“Ay, Bumper, you know my ways,” replied Lord Jeffry, though not looking particularly pleased to meet his friend.

“Hello, Notchy,” said Lord Bumper, genially turning to the cricketer. “Have you been a drive with Lord Jeffry?”

The red-faced cricketer touched his hat and looked uncomfortable, but did not answer.

“Now then, Notchy, off with you, and get a few knocks for practice,” Lord Jeffry broke in hastily. “Lord Bumper and I want a talk in private.”

“I’ll lay you two thousand to one in guineas, Bumper, against Hamble Green,” began Lord Jeffry in a low voice as soon as the professional was out of earshot. “What d’you say, man?”

“Done like a shot,” replied Lord Bumper. “You seem pretty confident. You’ve not heard that anyone has been jalaping Notchy’s beer for him, have you?”

The young cricketer did not follow the advice of his patron with regard to having some practice, but after leaving the two young noblemen he strolled by the side of the common along the Sampley road. As he came to the rectory garden there was a call from the other side of the hedge, and lifting his eyes he saw the fair Margy waving to him.

“Come inside,” she cried, in a low voice.

Somewhat reluctantly he obeyed, and as soon as he entered the gate Margy as usual came to meet him with open arms, and gave him a sounding kiss.

“Thank ’ee, my dear,” he cried. “Do it again.”

And Margy did it again.

“I saw you driving past in that carriage,” said she, with cheeks aflame and eyes sparkling. “You did look fine.”

“Oh, I did, did I?” he answered, nodding his head.

“I wanted to tell you,” continued Margy, significantly, and glancing down very demurely, “that you must be sure to earn them fifty guineas.”

“I’ll do my best,” answered the young cricketer; “Lord Jeffry said this morning he’d no doubt I’d get it.”

“You told me it was Lord Bumper,” Margy replied. “Now, I hope you’re not telling fibs.”

“It’s true as houses,” he returned uneasily.

“And if you get the money,” continued Margy with a languishing look, “you’ll keep your promise, Notchy, and marry me right away, won’t you?”

And she threw her arms round his neck once more. He disengaged himself rather abruptly.

“E, I must be off,” he stammered,