Steady!"

And now the new-comer has to take the last ball of the over--his first.
Alas and alack! The sixth ball is dead on to the middle stump. The
Harrovian plays forward. Man alive, you ought to have played back at
that! The ball grazes the top edge of the bat's blade and flies straight
into the welcoming hands of the wicket-keeper.

Two wickets for 33.

Breathless suspense, broken by tumultuous cheers as Scaife strides on to
the ground. His bat is under his arm; he is drawing on his gloves.
Thousands of men and as many women are staring at his splendid face and
figure.

"What a mover!" murmurs the Rev. Septimus.

Scaife strides on. Upon his face is the expression John knows so well
and fears so much--the consciousness of power, the stern determination to
be first, to shatter previous records. John can predict--and does so
with absolute certainty--what will happen. For six overs the Demon will
treat every ball--good, bad, and indifferent--with the most distinguished
consideration. And then, when his "eye" is in, he will give the Etonians
such leather-hunting as they never had before.

After a long stand made by Scaife and Desmond, Caesar is caught at
cover-point, but Scaife remains. It is a Colossus batting, not a Harrow
boy. The balls come down the pitch; the Demon's shoulders and chest
widen; the great knotted arms go up--crash! First singles; then twos;
then threes; and then boundary after boundary. To John--and to how many
others?--Scaife has been transformed into a tremendous human machine,
inexorably cutting and slicing, pulling and drawing--the embodied symbol
of force, ruthlessly applied, indefatigable, omnipotent.

The Eton captain, hopeful against odds, puts on a cunning and cool dealer
in "lobs." Fluff is in, playing steadily, holding up his wicket, letting
the giant make the runs. The Etonian delivers his first ball. Scaife
leaves the crease. Fluff sees the ball slowly spinning--harmless enough
till it pitches, and then deadly as a writhing serpent. Scaife will not
let it pitch. The ball curves slightly from the leg to the off. Scaife
is facing the pavilion----

A stupendous roar bursts from the crowd. The ball, hit with terrific
force, sails away over the green sward, over the ropes, over the heads of
the spectators, and slap on to the top of the pavilion.

Only four; but one of the finest swipes ever seen at Lord's. Shade of
Mynn, come forth from the tomb to applaud that