e Rev. Septimus, in a choked tone, "but if I
tried to walk I should tumble down."

Charles Desmond says nothing. But, pray note the expression so
faithfully recorded in _Punch_--the compressed lips, the stern frowning
brows, the protruded jaw. The famous debater sees all fights to a
finish, and fights himself till he drops.

_Seven runs to make, one wicket to fall, and five minutes to play_!!!

Evidently the last man in has received strenuous instructions from his
chief. The bowling has degenerated into that of anaemic girls--and two
whacks to the boundary mean--Victory. The new-comer is the square,
thick-set fast bowler, the worst bat in the Eleven, but a fellow of
determination, a slogger and a run-getter against village teams.

He obeys instructions to the letter. The Duffer's fifth ball goes to the
boundary.

Three runs to make and two and a half minutes to play!

The Duffer sends down the last ball. The Rev. Septimus covers his eyes.
O wretched Duffer! O thou whose knees are as wax, and whose arms are as
chop-sticks in the hands of a Griffin! O egregious Duff! O degenerate
son of a noble sire, dost thou dare at such a moment as this to attack
thine enemy with a--long hop?

The square, thick-set bowler shows his teeth as the ball pitches short.
Then he smites and runs. Runs, because he has smitten so hard that no
hand, surely, can stop the whirling sphere. Runs--ay--and so does the
Demon at cover point. This is the Demon's amazing conjuring-trick--what
else can you call it? And he has practised it so often, that he reckons
failure to be almost impossible. To those watching he seems to spring
like a tiger at the ball. By Heaven! he has stopped it--he's snapped it
up! But if he despatches it to the wicket-keeper, it will arrive too
late. The other Etonian is already within a couple of yards of the
crease. Scaife does not hesitate. He aims at the bowler's wicket
towards which the burly one is running as fast as legs a thought too
short can carry him.

He aims and shies--instantaneously. He shatters the wicket.

"How's that?"

The appeal comes from every part of the ground.

And then, clearly and unmistakably, the umpire's fiat is spoken--

"Out!"

The Rev. Sep rises and rushes off, upsetting chairs, treading on toes,
bent only upon being the first to tell Warde that Harrow has won.

"_Io_! _Io_! _Io_!"

[1] The blue of the Harrow colours.

[2] Lamper, _i.e._ Lamp-post.