'Capital game--well played--some strokes admirable,' said the
stranger, as both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of
the game.
'You have played it, sir?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been
much amused by his loquacity.
'Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not here--West
Indies--exciting thing--hot work--very.'
'It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,' observed
Mr. Pickwick.
'Warm!--red hot--scorching--glowing. Played a match once--single wicket--friend the
colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who
should get the greatest number of runs.--Won the toss--first
innings--seven o'clock A.m.--six natives to look out--went in;
kept in--heat intense--natives all fainted--taken away--fresh
half-dozen ordered--fainted also--Blazo bowling--supported by
two natives--couldn't bowl me out--fainted too--cleared away
the colonel--wouldn't give in--faithful attendant--Quanko
Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball scorched
brown--five hundred and seventy runs--rather exhausted--
Quanko mustered up last remaining strength--bowled me out--
had a bath, and went out to dinner.'
'And what became of what's-his-name, Sir?' inquired an
old gentleman.
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