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me from observing every detail of the proceedings
which I am now able to visualize so clearly across the
intervening years.

The umpires in their long white coats have placed
the bails on the stumps, each at his own end, and they
are still satisfying themselves that the stumps are in
the requisite state of exact uprighlriess. Tom Seamark,
the Rothenien umpire, is a red-faced sporting publi-
can who bulks as large as a lighthouse, As an umpire
he has certain emphatic mannerisms. When appealed
to he expresses a negative decision with a severe and
stentorian "Nor OOUT": but when adjudicating that
the batsman is out, he silently shoots his right arm
toward the sky—an impressive and irrevocable gesture
which effectively quells all adverse criticism. He is,
of course, a tremendous judge of the game, and when
not absorbed by his grave responsibilities he is one of
the most jovial men you could meet with.

Bill Sutler, our umpire, is totally different. To
begin with, he has a wooden leg. Nobody knows how
he lost his leg; he does not deny the local tradition
that he .was once a soldier, but even in his cups he
has never been heard to claim that he gave the limb
For Queen and Country. It is, however, quite certain
that he is now a cobbler (with a heavily waxed mous-
tache) and Butlcy has ceased to deny that he is a
Grossly partisan umpire. In direct contrast to Tom
eamark he invariably signifies "not out" by a sour
shake of the head: when the answer is an affirmative
one he bawls "Hout" as if he'd been stung by a wasp.
It is reputed that (after giving the enemy's last man
out leg-before in a closely-fought finish) he was once
heard to add, in an exultant undertone: "and I've
won my five bob," He has also been accused of
making holes in the pitch with his wooden leg in