they might be the best players] which flattering persuasion appeared likely to prevail, in fault of a better, when all on a sudden the true reason of our defeat seemed to burst at once from half a dozen voices, re-echoed like a chorus by all the others—“It was entirely owing to the want of Jack Hatch! How could we think of playing without Jack Hatch?”
This was the first I heard of him. My inquiries as to this great player were received with utter astonishment. “Who is Jack Hatch!—Not know Jack Hatch!—Never hear of Jack Hatch!”—There was no end to the wonder. Not to know him, argued myself unknown. “Jack Hatch, the best cricketer in the parish, in the county, in the country!—Jack Hatch, who had got seven notches at one hit!—Jack Hatch, who had trolled and caught out a whole eleven!—Jack Hatch, who, besides these marvellous gifts in cricket, was the best bowler and the best musician in the hundred—could dance a horn-pipe and a minuet, sing a whole song-book, bark like a dog, mew like a cat, crow like a cock, and go through Punch from beginning to end!—Not know Jack Hatch!!”
Half ashamed of my non-acquaintance with this admirable Crichton of rural accomplishments, I determined to find him out as soon as possible, and I have been looking for him, more or less, ever since. The cricket-ground and the
