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Efter a lang laberlethan, the bailer got three shies at Batchy's wickets, because he tried to het what they ca'd a sneak. But he missed ilky time, an' syne Batchy wallapit the ba' a' ower the Common, an' floo frae end to end o' the wickets like's he wasna wyse.
They had gone quite "batchy" with fright, requiring a not too gentle application of the tiller to their heads in order to keep them quiet. The remedy, if rough, was effectual, for "the subsequent proceedings interested them no more."
Batchy spat in his hands, an' set himsel' up for the next ba'. He lut drive at it, but missed, an' doon gaed his wickets. Ye never heard sic a row. "A bloomin' sneak!" roared a' the laddies aside me thegither. "Dinna gae oot, Batchy. It rowed a' the road." There was an awfu' wey-o-doin', an' aboot fifty laddies roond Sandy, a' yalpin' till him at ae time.
It was juist in the auld place, as far as I cud see. Very weel, than, the match began, as I was sayin', an' a'thing gaed richt eneuch for a little. The Collie Park lads did fine for a while, but some o' them didna get so lang strikin' the ba' as ithers, an' they began to roar cheek. "Noo, Batchy," said some o' them, as a gey mettled-lookin' loon got the bat, "strik' oot.
Kelly went on "Confeetur Dimnipotenmti batchy Mary semplar virginy, batchy Mickletoe Archy Angelo, batchy Johnny Bartisty, sanctris postlis Petrum hit Paulum omnium sanctris, et tabby pasture, quay a pixavit minus coglety ashy hony verbum et offer him smaxy quilia smaxy quilta sniaxy maxin in quilia."*
Lat's see ye knokin' the colour oot o' Snapper Morrison's ballin'." Sal, mind ye, an' Batchy wasna lang o' doin' that. He shut his een, an' hit sweech at the ba', an' awa' it gaed sailin' ower the dyke. "Well away," roared the loons roond aboot me. "That's a sixer. Play up, Batchy!"
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