n time," says Charles Desmond.

"Yes he will," Warde answers savagely.

"He has!" screamed the Rev. Septimus. "He--_has_!"

Pandemonium broke loose. Grey-headed men threw their hats into the air;
M.P.'s danced; lovely women shrieked; every Harrovian on the ground
howled. For Caesar held the ball fast in his lean brown hands.

The Eton captain walks slowly towards the pavilion. He has to pass
Caesar on his way, and passing him he pauses.

"That was a glorious catch," he says, with the smile of a gallant
gentleman.

And as Harrow, as cordially as Eton, cheers the retiring chieftain, the
Caterpillar whispers to Mrs. Verney--

"Did you see that? Did you see him stop to congratulate Caesar?"

"Yes," says Mrs. Verney.

"I hope Scaife saw it too," the Caterpillar replies coolly. "That Eton
captain is cut out of whole cloth; no shoddy there, by Jove!"

And Desmond. How does Desmond feel? It is futile to ask him, because he
could not tell you, if he tried. But we can answer the question. If the
country that he wishes to serve crowns him with all the honours bestowed
upon a favoured son, never, _never_ will Caesar Desmond know again a
moment of such exquisite, unadulterated joy as this.

Six wickets down and 39 runs to get in less than half an hour!

Every ball now, every stroke, is a matter for cheers, derisive or
otherwise. The Rev. Septimus need not prate of golden days gone by.
Boys at heart never change. And the atmosphere is so charged with
electricity that a spark sets the firmament ablaze.

_Seven wickets for_ 192.

_Eight wickets for_ 197.

Signs of demoralization show themselves on both sides. The bowling has
become deplorably feeble, the batting even more so. Four more singles
are recorded. Only ten runs remain to be made, with two wickets to fall.

And twelve minutes to play!

Scaife puts on the Duffer again. The lips of the Rev. Sep are seen to
move inaudibly. Is he praying, or cursing, because three singles are
scored off his son's first three balls?

"Well bowled--well bowled!"

A ball of fair length, easy enough to play under all ordinary
circumstances, but a "teaser" when tremendous issues are at stake, has
defeated one of the Etonians. The last man runs towards the pitch
through a perfect hurricane of howls. Warde rises.

"I can't stand it," he says, and his voice shakes oddly. "You fellows
will find me behind the Pavvy after the match."

"I'd go with you," says th