on this bright June day. The exploits of the school at the
recent election may have had something to do with the number of
townsfolk who flocked up to see the game, but apart from that the
Rockshire match was always one of the great events of the season.

Last year, thanks to old Wyndham's prowess, the school had won; but
before that, back almost to the days of the mythical Bouncer, the fates
had been the other way; and this year, good as the team was, no one had
the hardihood to predict with any confidence a victory for the boys.

Just as Riddell was leaving the tent to take his place in the field,
young Wyndham came up and clapped him cheerily on the back.

"Go in and win, I say," he cried, gaily. "I back you, old man."

It was the first time the two had met since Riddell's interview with Tom
the boat-boy, and the sight of his old friend's brother, and the sound
of his voice just now, gave the captain a shock which for the moment
almost unmanned him.

He turned pale as he looked at the boy, and thought of that knife.

"Oh, I say," said Wyndham, noticing his perturbation, "pull yourself
together, old man; you'll get on all serene. I was funky the first time
I showed up for the second-eleven, you know, but it's all right now!"

"Now, Riddell!" cried Bloomfield, impatiently, from the wickets; and off
the captain hurried to his post, with a load of trouble at his heart,
and feeling anything but a jubilant athlete.

Wyndham, little dreaming what was passing through his patron's mind,
settled himself cross-legged at the door of the scorer's tent, and
thought of nothing for the next few hours but the match.

The two Rockshire men, upon whom devolved the duty of "opening the
ball," strolled slowly up to the wickets, and a minute later the match
had begun.

As usual, the first few overs were uneventful. The bowlers were trying
what the batsmen were made of, and the batsmen were trying what the
bowlers were made of. Riddell was thankful for his part that no ball
came his way, and the spectators generally seemed to regard two maiden
overs as a sort of necessary infliction at the opening of any big match.

But when Bloomfield took the ball again it was evident things were to
grow a little brisker. His first ball was very neatly patted towards
square-leg for two, amid the cheers which always greet "the first
blood," and his next ball slipped past the long-stop for a bye. Wyndham
and some other enthusiasts sighed