still in, playing steadily, not brilliantly; the Harrow
bowling was getting slack.

In the pavilion, the Rev. Septimus, Warde, and Charles Desmond were
sitting together. Not far from them was Scaife's father, a big, burly
man with a square head and heavy, strongly-marked features. He had never
been a cricketer, but this game gripped him. He sat next to a
world-famous financier of the great house of Neuchatel, whose sons had
been sent to the Hill. Run after run, run after run was added to the
score. Scaife's father turned to Neuchatel.

"I'd write a cheque for ten thousand pounds," he said, "if we could win."

Lionel Neuchatel nodded. "Yes," he muttered; "I have not felt so excited
since Sir Bevis won the Derby."

In the deep field Desmond was standing, miserable because he had nothing
to do. No balls came his way; for the Eton captain had made up his mind
to win this match with singles and twos. Very carefully he placed his
balls between the fielders; very carefully his partner followed his
chief's example. No stealing of runs, no scoring off straight balls, no
gallery play--till victory was assured.

Poor Lord Fawley retired at this point into an inner room, pulling
savagely at his white beard. Old Lyburn, who had been sitting beside
him, gurgling and gasping, staggered after him. The Rev. Septimus kept
wiping his forehead.

"I can't stand this much longer," said Warde, in a hoarse whisper.

"Well hit, sir! Well hit!"

The Eton cheering became frantic. After nearly an hour's pawky,
uninteresting play, the Eton captain suddenly changed his tactics. His
"eye" was in; now or never let him score. A half-volley came down from
the pavilion end--a half-volley and off the wicket. The Etonian put all
the strength and power he had suppressed so manfully into a tremendous
swipe, and hit the ball clean over the ropes.

"Do you want to double that bet?" said Strathpeffer to the Caterpillar.
They were standing on the top of the Trent coach.

"No, thanks."

"Give you two to one, Egerton?"

"Done--in fivers."

The unhappy bowler sent down another half-volley. Once more the Etonian
smote, and smote hard; but this ball was not quite the same as the first,
although it appeared identical. The ball soared up and up. Would it
fall over the ropes? Thousands of eyes watched its flight. Desmond
started to run. Golconda to a sixpence on the fall! It is falling,
falling, falling.

"He'll never get there i