Two days after the cricket-match, Mr. Crobble paid a visit to my master.

"Well, old fellow, d___ me me, if you ain't a trump--how's your wind?"
--kindly enquired Mr. Timmis.

"Vastly better, thank'ye; how's Wallis and the other fellows?--prime
sport that cricketing."

"Yes; but, I say, you'll never have 'a run' of luck, if you stick to the
wicket so."

"True; but I made a hit or two, you must allow," replied Mr. Crobble;
"though I'm afraid I'm a sorry member."

"A member, indeed!--no, no; you're the body, and we're the--members,"
replied Mr. Timmis, laughing; "but, halloo! what's that patch on your
forehead--bin a fighting?"

"No; but I've been a hunting," said Mr. Crobble, "and this here's the
fruits--You know my gray?"

"The nag you swopp'd the bay roadster for with Tom Brown?"

"Him," answered Crobble. "Well, I took him to Hertfordshire Wednesday
last--"

"He took you, you mean."

"Well, what's the odds?"