son and not his.

And, of course, the Eton captain never gives another chance till he is
dismissed with half a century to his credit. Meantime five more wickets
have fallen. Seven down for 191! Eton leaves the field with a score of
226 against Harrow's 289. Harrow goes in without delay, and one wicket
is taken for 13 runs before the stumps are drawn. Charles Desmond looks
at the sky.

"Looks like rain to-night," he says anxiously.

And so ends Friday's play.

The morrow dawned grey, obscured by mist rising from ground soaked by two
hours' heavy rain. You may be sure that all our friends were early at
Lord's, and that the pitch was examined by thousands of anxious eyes.
The Eton fast bowler was seen to smile. Upon a similar wicket had he not
done the famous hat-trick only three weeks before? The rain, however,
was over, and soon the sun would drive away the filmy mists. No man
alive could foretell what condition the pitch would be in after a few
hours of blazing sunshine. The Rev. Septimus told Charles Desmond that
he considered the situation to be critical, and, although he had read the
morning paper, he was not alluding even indirectly to South African
affairs. Charles Desmond said that, other things being equal, the Hill
would triumph; but he admitted that other things were very far from
equal. It looked as if Harrow would have to bat upon a treacherous
wicket, and Eton on a sound one.

At half-past ten punctually the men were in the field. Scaife issued
last instructions. "Block the bowling; don't try to score till you see
what tricks the ground will play. A minute saved now may mean a quarter
of an hour to us later." Caesar nodded cheerfully. The fact that the
luck had changed stimulated every fibre of his being. And he said that
he felt in his bones that this was going to be a famous match, like that
of '85--something never to be forgotten.

Charles Desmond spoke few words while his son was batting. It was a
tradition among the Desmonds that they rose superior to emergency. The
Minister wondered whether his Harry would rise or fall. The fast bowler
delivered the first ball. It bumped horribly. The Rev. Septimus
shuddered and closed his eyes. Caesar got well over it. The third ball
was cut for three. The fourth whizzed down--a wide. The fast bowler
dipped the ball into the sawdust.

"It isn't all jam for him," whispered the Rev. Septimus.

"Well bowled--well bowled!"

Alas! th