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could improve upon the detail of it. I can see those queer, freckled, hairy arms of his as I write—the combination of colours in them produced an effect that was almost orange. It struck one as unusual. …
    Surrey had the choice of innings, and decided to bat, despite the fact that the wicket was drying after rain, under the influence of a steady south-west wind and occasional bursts of sunshine. Would any captain in Stott’s second year have dared to take first innings under such conditions? The question is farcical now, but not a single member of the Hampdenshire Eleven had the least conception that the Surrey captain was deliberately throwing away his chances on that eventful day.
    Wallis and I were sitting together in the reporters’ box. There were only four of us; two specials,—Wallis and myself,—a news-agency reporter, and a local man.
    “Stott takes first over,” remarked Wallis, sharpening his pencil and arranging his watch and score-sheet—he was very meticulous in his methods.They’ve put him to bowl against the wind. He’s medium right, isn’t he?”
    “Haven’t the least idea,” I said. “He volunteered no information; Hampdenshire have been keeping him dark.”
    Wallis sneered. “Think they’ve got a find, eh?” he said. “We’ll wait and see what he can do against first-class batting.”
    We did not have to wait long.
    As usual, Thorpe and Harrison were first wicket for Surrey, and Thorpe took the first ball.
    It bowled him. It made his wicket look as untidy as any wicket I have ever seen. The off stump was out of the ground, and the other two were markedly divergent.
    “Damn it, I wasn’t ready for him,” we heard Thorpe say in the professionals’ room. Thorpe always had some excuse, but on this occasion it was justified.
    C. V. Punshon was the next comer, and he got his first ball through the slips for four, but Wallis looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
    “Punshon didn’t know a lot about that,” he said, and then he added, “I say, what a queer delivery the chap has. He stands and shoots ’em out. It’s uncanny. He’s a kind of human catapult.” He made a note of the phrase on his pad.
    Punshon succeeded in hitting the next ball, also, but it simply ran up his bat into the hands of short slip.
    “Well, that’s a sitter, if you like,” said Wallis. “What’s the matter with ’em?”
    I was beginning to grow enthusiastic.
    “Look here, Wallis,” I said, “this chap’s going to break records.”
    Wallis was still doubtful.
    He was convinced before the innings was over.
    There must be many who remember the startling poster that heralded the early editions of the evening papers:
    SURREY
ALL OUT
FOR 13 RUNS.
    For once sub-editors did not hesitate to give the score on the contents bill. That was a proclamation which would sell. Inside, the headlines were rich and varied. I have an old paper by me, yellow now, and brittle, that may serve as a type for the rest. The headlines are as follows:—
    SURREY AND HAMPDENSHIRE.
EXTRAORDINARY BOWLING PERFORMANCE.
DOUBLE HAT-TRICK.
SURREY ALL OUT IN 35 MINUTES FOR 13 RUNS.
STOTT TAKES 10 WICKETS FOR 5.
    The “double hat-trick” was six consecutive wickets, the last six, all clean bowled.
    “Good God!” Wallis said, when the last wicket fell, and he looked at me with something like fear in his eyes. “This man will have to be barred; it means the end of cricket.”
VI
    Stott’s accident came during the high flood of Hampdenshire success. For two years they held undisputed place as champion county, a place which could not be upset by the most ingenious methods of calculating points. They three times defeated Australia, and played four men in the test matches. As a team they were capable of beating any Eleven opposed to them. Not even the newspaper critics denied that.
    The accident appeared insignificant at the time. The match was against Notts on the Trent Bridge ground. I was reporting for three papers; Wallis was not