see, why, then, my dear fellow, look at
Scaife!

Scaife stands at cover-point. If you put up your binoculars, you will
see that he is almost on his toes. His heels are not touching the
ground. And he bends slightly, not quite as low as a sprinter, but so
low that he can start with amazing speed. For two overs not a ball worth
fielding rolls his way. Ah! that will be punished. A long hop comes down
the pitch. The Etonian squares his shoulders. His eye, to be sure, is on
the ball, but in his mind's eye is the boundary; in his ear the first
burst of applause. Bat meets ball with a smack which echoes from the
Tennis Court to the stands across the ground. Now watch Scaife! He
dashes at top speed for the only point where his hands may intercept
that hard-hit ball. And, by Heaven! he stops it, and flicks it up to the
wicket-keeper, who whips off the bails.

"How's that?"

"Not out!"

"Well fielded; well fielded, sir!"

"A very close squeak," says the Caterpillar. "They won't steal many runs
from the Demon."

"Sometimes," says Iris Warde, "I really think that he _is_ a demon."

The Caterpillar nods. "You're more than half right, Miss Warde."

Presently, the first wicket falls; then the second soon after. And the
score is under twenty. The Rev. Septimus is beaming; the Bishop seated
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 an