all eyes, from
the pavilion to the pitch. Upon this subject the Rev. Septimus will
preach a longer (and a more interesting) sermon than any you will hear
from his pulpit in Blackford-Orcas Church.

Loud cheers put an end to the parson's reminiscences. Desmond's
companion has been clean bowled for a useful fifteen runs. He walks
towards the pavilion slowly. Then, as he hears the Harrow cheers, he
blushes like a nymph of sixteen, for he counts himself a failure. Last
year he made a "duck" in his first innings, and five in the second. No
cheers then. This is his first taste of the honey mortals call success.
He has faced the great world, and captured its applause.

"When does Scaife go in?" the Rev. Septimus asks.

"Second wicket down."

More cheers as the second man in strolls down the steps. A careful cove,
so the Duffer tells his father--one who will try to break the back of the
bowling.

"They're taking off Fluff's brother," the Caterpillar observes.

A thick-set young man holds the ball. He makes some slight alteration in
the field. The wicket-keeper stands back; the slips and point retreat a
few yards. The ball that took the first wicket was the last of an over.
Desmond has to receive the attack of the new bowler.

The thick-set Etonian, having arranged the off side to his satisfaction,
prepares to take a long run. He holds the ball in the left hand, runs
sideways at great speed, changes the ball from the left hand to the right
at the last moment, and seems to hurl both it and himself at the batsman.

"Greased lightning!" says John.

A dry summer has made the pitch rather fiery. The ball, short-pitched,
whizzes just over Caesar's head. A second and a third seem to graze his
cap. Murmurs are heard. Is the Eton bowler trying to kill or maim his
antagonist? Is he deliberately endeavouring to establish a paralysing
"funk"?

But the fourth ball is a "fizzer"--the right length, a bailer,
terrifically fast, but just off the wicket. Desmond snicks it between
short slip and third man; it goes to the boundary.

"That's what Caesar likes," says the Duffer. "He can cut behind the
wicket till the cows come home."

"Cut--and come again," says the Caterpillar.

The fifth ball is played forward for a risky single. The Rev. Septimus
forgets that times have changed. And if they have, what of it? He
hasn't. His deep vibrant voice rolls across the lawn right up to the
batsman--

"Steady there!