in 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 the 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