. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is impatient
to begin again. As soon as possible he collects his men, and leads them
into the field. One can hear the policemen saying in loud, firm voices,
"Pass along, please; pass along!" As if by magic the crowds on the lawn
melt away. In a few minutes the Etonians come out of the pavilion. The
sun shines upon their pale-blue caps and sashes, and upon faces slightly
pale also, but not yet blue. For Eton has a strong batting team, and
Scaife and Desmond have proved that it is a batsman's wicket.

And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, settle themselves
down comfortably to watch Scaife field. That, to them, is the great
attraction, apart from the contest between the rival schools. Some of
these Olympians have been heard to say that Scaife's innings against weak
bowling was no very meritorious performance, although the two "swipes,"
they admit, were parlous knocks. Still, Public School cricket is
kindergarten cricket, and if you've not been at Eton or Harrow, and if
you loathe a fashionable crowd, and if you think first-class fielding is
worth coming to Lord's to see, why, then, my dear fellow, look at Scaife!

Scaife stands at cover-point. If you put up your binoculars, you will
see that he is almost on his toes. His heels are not touching the
ground. And he bends slightly, not quite as low as a sprinter, but so
low that he can start with amazing speed. For two overs not a ball worth
fielding rolls his way. Ah! that will be punished. A long hop comes
down the pitch. The Etonian squares his shoulders. His eye, to be sure,
is on the ball, but in his mind's eye is the boundary; in his ear the
first burst of applause. Bat meets ball with a smack which echoes from
the Tennis-Court to the stands across the ground. Now watch Scaife! He
dashes at top speed for the only point where his hands may intercept that
hard-hit ball. And, by Heaven! he stops it, and flicks it up to the
wicket-keeper, who chips off the bails.

"How's that?"

"Not out!"

"Well fielded; well fielded, sir!"

"A very close squeak," says the Caterpillar. "They won't steal many runs
from the Demon."

"Sometimes," says Miss Iris, "I really think that he is a demon."

The Caterpillar nods. "You're more than half right, Miss Warde."

Presently, the first wicket falls; then the second soon after. And the
score is under twenty. The Rev. Septimus is beaming; the Bishop seated