Page:The Hambledon Men (1907).djvu/169

 turf, the glittering of the ocean, the blue hills of the Isle of Wight looming in the distance, and the elmy gardens and half-wild orchards sprinkled in the bottom.

Well! believe yourself transported there;—and now ten (the old hour, before modern fashion and indolence had superseded it) has struck; a few cricketers in their white dress, and numerous groups of farmers and rustics, have assembled from grange and farm, from Exton down to the hills of Petersfield,—and now all is bustle and expectation. A shout!—turn to the right! You may instantly know who it is; Noah Mann from North Chapel in Sussex, who lately joined the club, and who rides at least twenty miles every Tuesday to practise. Look at those handkerchiefs on the ground! Riding at full speed, he stoops down, and collects every one without effort. Mann was a severe hitter. One stroke of his is even now remembered, in which he got the immense number of ten runs. He was short, and black as a gipsy, broad chest, large hips, and spider legs. He never played with a hat; his complexion benefited by the Sun. The roar that followed Mann's celebrated hit never is to be forgotten, it was like the rushing of a cataract; it came pouring from a thousand lungs. And there is his namesake and opponent, Sir Horace, walking about outside the ground, cutting down the daisies with his stick—as gentle he, as the simple flowers which he was strewing beside him!

That stout, well-made man in with Mann is James Aylward, the farmer. Glory and honour be to him. Aylward once stood in two whole days, and scored a hundred and sixty-seven runs. Soon after, he was seen to have been called by Sir Horace Mann into