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 cular act of imprudence from which it sprang; and we, on the same principle, found our affliction somewhat mitigated by the endeavour to trace it to its source. One laid the catastrophe to the wind—a very common scape-goat in the catarrhal calamity—which had, as it were, played us booty, carrying our adversaries’ balls right, and ours wrong: another laid it to a certain catch missed by Tom Willis, by which means farmer Thackum, the pride and glory of the Beech-hillers, had two innings: a third to the aforesaid Thackum’s remarkable manner of bowling, which is circular, so to say; that is, after taking aim, he makes a sort of chassée on one side, before he delivers his ball; which pantomimic motion had a great effect on the nerves of our eleven, unused to such quadrilling. A fourth imputed our defeat to the over-civility of our umpire, George Gosseltine, a sleek, smooth, silky, soft-spoken person, who stood with his little wand under his arm, smiling through all our disasters—the very image of peace and good-humour; whilst their umpire, Bob Coxe, a roystering, roaring, bullying blade, bounced and hectored and blustered from his wicket with the voice of a twelve-pounder. The fifth assented to this opinion, with some extension; asserting, that the universal impudence of their side took advantage of the meekness and modesty of ours, —It never occurred to our modesty that