beside him looks as if he were about to pronounce a benediction; Charles
Desmond is scintillating with wit and good humour. Visions of a single
innings victory engross the minds of these three. They are in the front
row of the pavilion, and they mean to see every ball of the game.

But soon it becomes evident that a determined stand is being made. Runs
come slowly, but they come; the score creeps up--thirty, forty, fifty.
Fluff goes on to bowl. On his day Fluff is tricky, but this, apparently,
is not his day. The runs come more quickly. The Rev. Septimus removes
his hat, wipes his forehead, and replaces his hat. It is on the back of
his head, but he is unaware of that. The Bishop appears now as if he
were reading a new commination--to wit, "Cursed is he that smiteth his
neighbour; cursed is he that bowleth half volleys." The Minister is
frowning; things may look black in South Africa, but they're looking
blacker in St. John's Wood.

One hundred runs for two wickets.

The Eton cheers are becoming exasperating. A few seats away Warde is
twiddling his thumbs and biting his lips. Old Lord Fawley has slipped
into the pavilion for a brandy and soda.

At last!

Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, changing his own place
in the field to short slip. The ball, a first ball and very fast,
puzzles the batsman, accustomed to slows. He mistimes it; it grazes the
edge of his bat, and whizzes off far to the right of Scaife, but the
Demon has it. Somehow or other, ask of the spirits of the air--not of
the writer--somehow his wonderful right hand has met and held the ball.

"Well caught, sir; well caught!"

"That boy ought to be knighted on the spot," says Charles Desmond. Then
the three generously applaud the retiring batsman. He has played a
brilliant innings, and restored the confidence of all Etonians.

The Eton captain descends the steps; a veteran this, not a dashing
player, but sure, patient, and full of grit. He asks the umpire to give
him middle and leg; then he notes the positions of the field.

"Whew-w-w-w!"

"D----n it!" ejaculates Charles Desmond. Bishop and parson regard him
with gratitude. There are times when an honest oath becomes expedient.
The Eton captain has cut the first ball into Fluff's hands, and Fluff has
dropped it! Alastair Kinloch, from the top of the Trent coach, screams
out, "Jolly well muffed!" The great Minister silently thanks Heaven that
point is the Duke's