"LORD'S"
"There we sat in the circle vast,
Hard by the tents, from noon,
And looked as the day went slowly past
And the runs came all too soon;
And never, I think, in the years gone by,
Since cricketer first went in,
Did the dying so refuse to die,
Or the winning so hardly win."
"My dear Jonathan, I'm delighted to see you. You know my father, I
think?" It was the Caterpillar that spoke.
John shook hands with Colonel Egerton.
The three were standing in the Members' Enclosure at Lord's. The
Caterpillar, gorgeous in frock-coat, with three corn-flowers[1] in the
lapel of it, was about as great a buck as his sire, quite as conspicuous,
and, seemingly, as cool. It happened to be a blazing hot day, but heat
seldom affected Colonel Egerton.
"By Jove," he said to John, "I'm told it's a certainty this year, and
I've come early, too early for me, to see a glorious victory. There's
civil war raging on the top of the Trent coach, I give you my word."
"We've won the toss," said John.
"Ah, there's Charles Desmond, an early bird too."
He bustled away, leaving John and the Caterpillar together. The great
ground in front of them was being cleared. One could see, through the
few people scattered here and there, the wickets pitched in the middle of
that vast expanse of lawn, and the umpires in their long white coats.
Upon the top of the steps, in the middle of the pavilion, the Eton
captain was collecting his Eleven. The Duffer, who had got his Flannels
at the last moment, came up and joined John and the Caterpillar.
"The Manor's well to the front," said the Caterpillar. "By Jove! I
never thought to see Fluff in the Eleven."
"Fluff came on tremendously this term," the Duffer replied.
"Of course the Kinlochs are a cricketing family."
"Good joke the brothers playing against each other," said John.
"Warde," the Duffer nodded in the direction of Warde, who was talking
with Charles Desmond and Colonel Egerton, "has worked like a slave. He
made a cricketer out of Fluff and a scholar out of Jonathan. He's so mad
keen to see us win, that he's given me the jumps."
"You must keep cool," the Caterpillar murmured. "I've just come from the
Trent coach. Fluff has it from the brother who is playing that the Eton
bowling is weak. But Strathpeffer, the eldest son, tells me the batsmen
are stronger than last year. He seemed anxious to bet; so we have a
fiver about it. They're taking the field."
The Eton Eleven walked towards the wicket, loudly cheered. Caesar came
up in his pads, carrying his bat and gloves. He shook hands with the
Caterpillar, and said, with a groan, that he had to take the first ball.
"Keep cool," said the Caterpillar. "The bowling's weak; I have it from
Cosmo Kinloch. They're in a precious funk."
"So am I," said the Duffer.
"But you're a bowler," said Desmond. "If I get out first ball, I shall
cut my throat."
But Caesar looked alert, cool, and neither under- nor over-confident.
"You'll cut the ball, not your throat," said the Duffer. Cutting was
Caesar's strong point.
The Caterpillar nodded, and spoke oracularly--
"My governor says he never shoots at a snipe without muttering to
himself, 'Snipe on toast.' It steadies his nerves. When you see the
ball leave the bowler's band, you say to yourself, 'Eton on toast.'"
"Your own, Caterpillar?"
"My own," said the Caterpillar, modestly. "I don't often make a joke,
but that's mine. Pass it on."
The other Harrovian about to go in beckoned to Desmond.
"Caesar won't be bowled first ball," said the Caterpillar. "He's the
sort that rises to an emergency. Can't we find a seat?"
They sat down and watched the Eton captain placing his field. Desmond
and his companion were walking slowly towards the wickets amid Harrow
cheers. The cheering was lukewarm as yet. It would have fire enough in
it presently. The Caterpillar pointed out some of the swells.
"That's old Lyburn. Hasn't missed a match since '64. Was brought here
once with a broken leg! Carried in a litter, by Jove! That fellow with
the long white beard is Lord Fawley. He made 78 _not out_ in the days of
Charlemagne."
"It was in '53," said the Duffer, who never joked on really serious
subjects; "and he made 68, not 78. He's pulling his beard. I believe
he's as nervous as I am."
Presently the innumerable voices about them were hushed; all eyes turned
in one direction. Desmond was about to take the first ball. It was
delivered moderately fast, with a slight break. Desmond played forward.
"Well played, sir! Well pla-a-ayed!"
The shout rumbled round the huge circle. The beginning and the end of a
great match are always thrilling. The second and third balls were played
like the first. John could hear Mr. Desmond saying to Warde, "He has
Hugo's style and way of standing--eh?" And Warde replied, "Yes; but he's
a finer batsman. Ah-h-h!"
The first real cheer burst like a bomb. Desmond had cut the sixth ball
to the boundary.
Over! The new bowler was a tall, thin boy with flaxen hair.
"That's Cosmo Kinloch, Fluff's brother," said John.
"I wonder they can't do better than that. Even I knocked him all over
the shop at White Ladies last summer."
"He's come on, they tell me," said the Caterpillar. "Good Lord, he
nearly had him first ball."
Fluff's brother bowled slows of a good length, with an awkward break from
the off to the leg.
"Teasers," said the Caterpillar, critically. "Hullo! No, my young
friend, that may do well enough in Shropshire, not here."
A ball breaking sharply from the off had struck the batsman's pad; he had
stepped in front of his wicket to cut it. Country umpires are often
beguiled by bowlers into giving wrong decisions in such cases, not so
your London expert. Cosmo Kinloch appealed--in vain.
"He'll send a short one down now," said John. "You see."
And, sure enough, a long hop came to the off, curling inwards after it
pitched. The Eton captain had nearly all his men on the off side. The
Harrovian pulled the ball right round to the boundary.
"Well hit!"
"Well pulled!"
"Two 4's; that's a good beginning," said the Duffer.
A couple of singles followed, and then the first "10" went up amid cheers.
"Here's my governor," said the Duffer. "He was three years in the Eleven
and Captain his last term."
"You've told us that a thousand times," said the Caterpillar.
The Rev. Septimus Duff greeted the boys warmly. His eyes sparkled out of
a cheery, bearded face. Look at him well. An Harrovian of the
Harrovians this. His grandfathers on the maternal and paternal side had
been friends at Harrow in Byron's time. The Rev. Septimus wore rather a
shabby coat and a terrible hat, but the consummate Caterpillar, who
respected pedigrees, regarded him with pride and veneration. He came up
from his obscure West Country vicarage to town just once a year--to see
the match. If you asked him, he would tell you quite simply that he
would sooner see the match and his old friends than go to Palestine; and
the Rev. Septimus has yearned to visit Palestine ever since he left
Cambridge; and it is not likely that this great wish will ever be
gratified. He is the father of three sons, but the Duffer is the first
to get into the Eleven. Charles Desmond joins them. At the moment,
Charles Desmond is supposed to be one of the most harried men in the
Empire. Times are troublous. A war-cloud, as large as Kruger's hand,
has just risen in the South, and is spreading itself over the whole
world. But to-day the great Minister has left the cares of office in
Downing Street. He hails the Rev. Septimus with a genial laugh and a
hearty grasp of the hand.
"Ah, Sep, upon your word of honour, now--would you sooner be here to see
the Duffer take half a dozen wickets, or be down in Somerset, bishop of
Bath and Wells?"
"When _you_ offer me the bishopric," replied the Rev. Septimus, with a
twinkle, "I'll answer that question, my dear Charles, and not before."
"You old humbug! You're so puffed up with sinful pride that you've stuck
your topper on to your head the wrong way about."
"Bless my soul," said the Duffer's father, "so I have."
"That topper of the governor's," the Duffer remarked solemnly, "has seen
twenty-five matches at least."
John looked at no hats; his eyes were on the pitch. Another round of
cheers proclaimed that "20" had gone up. Both boys are batting steadily;
no more boundary hits; a snick here, a snack there--and then--merciful
Heavens!--Caesar has cut a curling ball "bang" into short slip's hands.
Short slip--wretched youth--muffs it! Derisive remarks from the Rev.
Septimus.
"Well caught! Well held! Tha-a-nks!"
The Caterpillar would pronounce this sort of chaff bad form in a
contemporary. He removes his hat.
"By Jove!" says he. "It's very warm."
Caesar times the next ball beautifully. It glides past point and under
the ropes.
Early as it is, the ground seems to be packed with people. Glorious
weather has allured everybody. Stand after stand is filled up. The
colour becomes kaleidoscopic. The Rev. Septimus, during the brief
interval of an over, allows his eyes to stray round the huge circle.
Upon the ground are the youth, the beauty, the rank and fashion of the
kingdom, and, best of all, his old friends. The Rev. Septimus has a
weakness, being, of course, human to the finger-tips. He calls himself a
_laudator temporis acti_. In his day, the match was less of a function.
The boys sat round upon the grass; behind them were the carriages and
coaches--you could drive on to the ground then!--and here and there, only
here and there, a tent or a small stand. _Consule Planco_--the parson
loves a Latin tag--the match was an immense picnic for Harrovians and
Etonians. And, my word, you ought to have heard the chaff when an
unlucky fielder put the ball on the floor. Or, when a batsman interposed
a pad where a bat ought to have been. Or, if a player was bowled first
ball. Or, if he swaggered as he walked, the cynosure of all eyes, from
the pavilion to the pitch. Upon this subject the Rev. Septimus will
preach a longer (and a more interesting) sermon than any you will hear
from his pulpit in Blackford-Orcas Church.
Loud cheers put an end to the parson's reminiscences. Desmond's
companion has been clean bowled for a useful fifteen runs. He walks
towards the pavilion slowly. Then, as he hears the Harrow cheers, he
blushes like a nymph of sixteen, for he counts himself a failure. Last
year he made a "duck" in his first innings, and five in the second. No
cheers then. This is his first taste of the honey mortals call success.
He has faced the great world, and captured its applause.
"When does Scaife go in?" the Rev. Septimus asks.
"Second wicket down."
More cheers as the second man in strolls down the steps. A careful cove,
so the Duffer tells his father--one who will try to break the back of the
bowling.
"They're taking off Fluff's brother," the Caterpillar observes.
A thick-set young man holds the ball. He makes some slight alteration in
the field. The wicket-keeper stands back; the slips and point retreat a
few yards. The ball that took the first wicket was the last of an over.
Desmond has to receive the attack of the new bowler.
The thick-set Etonian, having arranged the off side to his satisfaction,
prepares to take a long run. He holds the ball in the left hand, runs
sideways at great speed, changes the ball from the left hand to the right
at the last moment, and seems to hurl both it and himself at the batsman.
"Greased lightning!" says John.
A dry summer has made the pitch rather fiery. The ball, short-pitched,
whizzes just over Caesar's head. A second and a third seem to graze his
cap. Murmurs are heard. Is the Eton bowler trying to kill or maim his
antagonist? Is he deliberately endeavouring to establish a paralysing
"funk"?
But the fourth ball is a "fizzer"--the right length, a bailer,
terrifically fast, but just off the wicket. Desmond snicks it between
short slip and third man; it goes to the boundary.
"That's what Caesar likes," says the Duffer. "He can cut behind the
wicket till the cows come home."
"Cut--and come again," says the Caterpillar.
The fifth ball is played forward for a risky single. The Rev. Septimus
forgets that times have changed. And if they have, what of it? He
hasn't. His deep vibrant voice rolls across the lawn right up to the
batsman--
"Steady there! Steady!"
And now the new-comer has to take the last ball of the over--his first.
Alas and alack! The sixth ball is dead on to the middle stump. The
Harrovian plays forward. Man alive, you ought to have played back at
that! The ball grazes the top edge of the bat's blade and flies straight
into the welcoming hands of the wicket-keeper.
Two wickets for 33.
Breathless suspense, broken by tumultuous cheers as Scaife strides on to
the ground. His bat is under his arm; he is drawing on his gloves.
Thousands of men and as many women are staring at his splendid face and
figure.
"What a mover!" murmurs the Rev. Septimus.
Scaife strides on. Upon his face is the expression John knows so well
and fears so much--the consciousness of power, the stern determination to
be first, to shatter previous records. John can predict--and does so
with absolute certainty--what will happen. For six overs the Demon will
treat every ball--good, bad, and indifferent--with the most distinguished
consideration. And then, when his "eye" is in, he will give the Etonians
such leather-hunting as they never had before.
After a long stand made by Scaife and Desmond, Caesar is caught at
cover-point, but Scaife remains. It is a Colossus batting, not a Harrow
boy. The balls come down the pitch; the Demon's shoulders and chest
widen; the great knotted arms go up--crash! First singles; then twos;
then threes; and then boundary after boundary. To John--and to how many
others?--Scaife has been transformed into a tremendous human machine,
inexorably cutting and slicing, pulling and drawing--the embodied symbol
of force, ruthlessly applied, indefatigable, omnipotent.
The Eton captain, hopeful against odds, puts on a cunning and cool dealer
in "lobs." Fluff is in, playing steadily, holding up his wicket, letting
the giant make the runs. The Etonian delivers his first ball. Scaife
leaves the crease. Fluff sees the ball slowly spinning--harmless enough
till it pitches, and then deadly as a writhing serpent. Scaife will not
let it pitch. The ball curves slightly from the leg to the off. Scaife
is facing the pavilion----
A stupendous roar bursts from the crowd. The ball, hit with terrific
force, sails away over the green sward, over the ropes, over the heads of
the spectators, and slap on to the top of the pavilion.
Only four; but one of the finest swipes ever seen at Lord's. Shade of
Mynn, come forth from the tomb to applaud that mighty stroke!
But the dealer in lobs knows that the man who leaves his citadel, leaves
it, sooner or later, not to return. In the hope that Scaife, intoxicated
with triumph, will run out again, he pitches the next lob too much up--a
half-volley. Scaife smiles.
John's prediction has been fulfilled. A record has been established.
Never before in an Eton and Harrow match have two balls been hit over the
ropes in succession. The crowds have lost their self-possession. Men,
women, and children are becoming delirious. The Rev. Septimus throws his
ancient topper into the air; the Caterpillar splits a brand-new pair of
delicate grey gloves. Upon the tops of the coaches, mothers, sisters,
aunts, and cousins are cheering like Fourth-Form boys.
The Harrow first innings closed with 289 runs, Scaife carrying out his
bat for an almost flawless 126. Desmond made 72; Fluff was in for
twenty-seven minutes--a great performance for him--and was caught in the
slips after compiling a useful 17.
But the remarkable feature of the innings was the short time in which so
many runs were made--exactly three hours. The elevens went in to lunch,
as the crowd poured over the ground, laughing and chattering. This is a
delightful hour to the Rev. Septimus. He will walk to the wickets, and
wait there for his innumerable friends. It will be, "Hullo, Sep!" "By
Jove, here's dear old Sep!" "Sep, you unfriendly beast, why do you never
come to see us?" "Sep, when are you going to send that awful tile of
yours to the British Museum?" And so on.
Twenty men, at least--some of them with names known wherever the Union
Jack waves--will ask the Rev. Sep to lunch with them; but the Rev. Sep
will say, as he has said these thirty years, that he doesn't come to
Lord's to "gorge." A sandwich presently, and a glass of "fizz," if you
please; but time is precious. A tall bishop strolls up--one of the
pillars of the Church, an eloquent preacher, and an autocrat in his
diocese. Most people regard him with awe. The Rev. Sep greets him with
a scandalous slap on the back, and addresses him, the apostolic one,
as--Lamper.[2] And the Lord Bishop of Dudley says, like the others--
"Hullo, Sep! We used to think you a slogger, but you never came anywhere
near that smite of Scaife's."
"I thought his smite was coming too near me," says the Rev. Sep, with a
shrewd glance at the pavilion. "Lamper, old chap, I _am_ glad to see
your 'phiz' again."
And so they stroll off together, mighty prelate and humble country
parson, once again happy Harrow boys.
And now, before Eton goes in, we must climb on to the Trent coach. Fluff
and his brother Cosmo, the Eton bowler, are lunching in other company,
but we shall find Colonel Egerton and the Caterpillar and Warde; so the
Hill slightly outnumbers the Plain, as the duke puts it. Next to the
duchess sits Mrs. Verney. The duke is torn nearly in two between his
desire that Fluff should make runs and that Cosmo, the Etonian, should
take wickets. His Eton sons regard him as a traitor, a "rat" and Colonel
Egerton gravely offers him the corn-flowers out of his coat.
"You can laugh," the duke says seriously, "but when I see what Harrow has
done for Esmé, I'm almost sorry"--he looks at his youngest son (nearly,
but not quite, as delicate-looking as Fluff used to be)--"I'm almost
sorry that I didn't send Alastair there also."
Alastair smiles contemptuously. "If you had," he says, "I should have
never spoken to you again. Esmé is a forgiving chap, but you've wrecked
his life. At least, that's my opinion."
After luncheon, the crowd on the lawn thickens. The ladies want to see
the pitch, and, shall we add, to display their wonderful frocks. The
enclosure at Ascot on Cup Day is not so gay and pretty a scene as this.
The Caterpillar, sly dog, has secured Iris Warde, and looks uncommonly
pleased with himself and his companion; a smart pair, but smart pairs are
common as gooseberries. It is the year of picture hats and Gainsborough
dresses.
"England at its best," says Miss Iris.
"And in its best," the Caterpillar replies solemnly.
Iris Warde is as keen as her father's daughter ought to be. She tells
the Caterpillar that when she was a small girl with only threepence a
week pocket-money, she used to save a penny a week for twelve weeks
preceding the match, so as to be able to put a shilling into the plate on
Sunday _if Harrow won_.
"And I dare say you'll marry an Etonian and wear light blue after all,"
growls the Caterpillar.
"Never!" says Miss Iris.
Now, amongst the black coats in the pavilion you see a white figure or
two. The Elevens have finished lunch, and are mixing with the crowd.
Scaife is talking with a famous Old Carthusian, one of the finest living
exponents of cricket, sometime an "International" at football, and a
D.S.O. The great man is very cordial, for he sees in Scaife an
All-England player. Scaife listens, smiling. Obviously, he is impatient
to begin again. As soon as possible he collects his men, and leads them
into the field. One can hear the policemen saying in loud, firm voices,
"Pass along, please; pass along!" As if by magic the crowds on the lawn
melt away. In a few minutes the Etonians come out of the pavilion. The
sun shines upon their pale-blue caps and sashes, and upon faces slightly
pale also, but not yet blue. For Eton has a strong batting team, and
Scaife and Desmond have proved that it is a batsman's wicket.
And now the connoisseurs, the really great players, settle themselves
down comfortably to watch Scaife field. That, to them, is the great
attraction, apart from the contest between the rival schools. Some of
these Olympians have been heard to say that Scaife's innings against weak
bowling was no very meritorious performance, although the two "swipes,"
they admit, were parlous knocks. Still, Public School cricket is
kindergarten cricket, and if you've not been at Eton or Harrow, and if
you loathe a fashionable crowd, and if you think first-class fielding is
worth coming to Lord's to 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 chips 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 Miss Iris, "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 and soda.
At last!
Scaife takes off Fluff and puts on a fast bowler, changing his own place
in the field to short slip. The ball, a first ball and very fast,
puzzles the batsman, accustomed to slows. He mistimes it; it grazes the
edge of his bat, and whizzes off far to the right of Scaife, but the
Demon has it. Somehow or other, ask of the spirits of the air--not of
the writer--somehow his wonderful right hand has met and held the ball.
"Well caught, sir; well caught!"
"That boy ought to be knighted on the spot," says Charles Desmond. Then
the three generously applaud the retiring batsman. He has played a
brilliant innings, and restored the confidence of all Etonians.
The Eton captain descends the steps; a veteran this, not a dashing
player, but sure, patient, and full of grit. He asks the umpire to give
him middle and leg; then he notes the positions of the field.
"Whew-w-w-w!"
"D----n it!" ejaculates Charles Desmond. Bishop and parson regard him
with gratitude. There are times when an honest oath becomes expedient.
The Eton captain has cut the first ball into Fluff's hands, and Fluff has
dropped it! Alastair Kinloch, from the top of the Trent coach, screams
out, "Jolly well muffed!" The great Minister silently thanks Heaven that
point is the Duke's son and not his.
And, of course, the Eton captain never gives another chance till he is
dismissed with half a century to his credit. Meantime five more wickets
have fallen. Seven down for 191! Eton leaves the field with a score of
226 against Harrow's 289. Harrow goes in without delay, and one wicket
is taken for 13 runs before the stumps are drawn. Charles Desmond looks
at the sky.
"Looks like rain to-night," he says anxiously.
And so ends Friday's play.
The morrow dawned grey, obscured by mist rising from ground soaked by two
hours' heavy rain. You may be sure that all our friends were early at
Lord's, and that the pitch was examined by thousands of anxious eyes.
The Eton fast bowler was seen to smile. Upon a similar wicket had he not
done the famous hat-trick only three weeks before? The rain, however,
was over, and soon the sun would drive away the filmy mists. No man
alive could foretell what condition the pitch would be in after a few
hours of blazing sunshine. The Rev. Septimus told Charles Desmond that
he considered the situation to be critical, and, although he had read the
morning paper, he was not alluding even indirectly to South African
affairs. Charles Desmond said that, other things being equal, the Hill
would triumph; but he admitted that other things were very far from
equal. It looked as if Harrow would have to bat upon a treacherous
wicket, and Eton on a sound one.
At half-past ten punctually the men were in the field. Scaife issued
last instructions. "Block the bowling; don't try to score till you see
what tricks the ground will play. A minute saved now may mean a quarter
of an hour to us later." Caesar nodded cheerfully. The fact that the
luck had changed stimulated every fibre of his being. And he said that
he felt in his bones that this was going to be a famous match, like that
of '85--something never to be forgotten.
Charles Desmond spoke few words while his son was batting. It was a
tradition among the Desmonds that they rose superior to emergency. The
Minister wondered whether his Harry would rise or fall. The fast bowler
delivered the first ball. It bumped horribly. The Rev. Septimus
shuddered and closed his eyes. Caesar got well over it. The third ball
was cut for three. The fourth whizzed down--a wide. The fast bowler
dipped the ball into the sawdust.
"It isn't all jam for him," whispered the Rev. Septimus.
"Well bowled--well bowled!"
Alas! the middle stump was knocked clean out of the ground. Caesar's
partner, a steady, careful player, had been bowled by his first ball.
Two wickets for 17.
The crowd were expecting the hero, but Fluff was walking towards the
wickets, wondering whether he should reach them alive. Never had his
heart beat as at this moment. Scaife had come up to him as soon as he
had examined the pitch.
"Fluff, I am putting you in early because you are a fellow I can trust.
My first and last word is, hit at nothing that isn't wide of the wicket.
The ground will probably improve fast."
Fluff nodded. A hive of bees seemed to have lodged in his head, and an
active automatic hammer in his heart; but he didn't dare tell the Demon
that funk, abject funk, possessed him, body and soul.
The second bowler began his first over. He bowled slows. Desmond played
the six balls back along the ground. A maiden over.
And then that thick-set, muscular beast, for so Fluff regarded him,
stared fixedly at Fluff's middle stump. Fluff glanced round. The
wicket-keeper had a grim smile on his lips, for his billet was no easy
one. Cosmo Kinloch at short slip looked as if it were a foregone
conclusion that Fluff would put the ball into his hands. Then Fluff
faced the bowler. Now for it!
The first ball was half a foot off the wicket, but Fluff let it go by.
The second came true enough. Fluff blocked it. The third flew past
Fluff's leg, but he just snicked it. Desmond started to run, and then
stopped, holding up his hand. Cheers rippled round the ring for the
first hit to the boundary. That was a bit of sheer luck, Fluff reflected.
After this both boys played steadily for some ten minutes. Then, very
slowly, Caesar began to score. He had made about fifteen when he drove a
ball hard to the on, Fluff backing up. Desmond, watching the travelling
ball, called to him to run. It seemed to Desmond almost certain that the
ball would go to the boundary. Too late he realized that it had been
magnificently fielded. Desmond strained every nerve, but his bat had not
reached the crease when the bails flew to right and left.
Out! And run out!
Three wickets for 41!
A quarter of an hour later Fluff was bowled with a yorker. He had made
eleven runs, and kept up his wicket during a crisis. Harrow cheered him
loudly.
And then came the terrible moment of the morning. Scaife went in when
Fluff's wicket fell. The ground had improved, but it was still
treacherous. The fast bowler sent down a straight one. It shot under
Scaife's bat and spread-eagled his stumps.
The wicket-keeper knows what the Harrow captain said, but it does not
bear repeating. Every eye was on his scowling, furious face as he
returned to the pavilion; and the Rev. Septimus scowled also, because he
had always maintained that any Harrovian could accept defeat like a
gentleman. Upon the other side of the ground the Caterpillar was saying
to his father, "I always said he was hairy at the heel."
It was admitted afterwards that the Duffer's performance was the one
really bright spot in Harrow's second innings. Being a bowler, he went
in last but one. It happened that Fluff's brother was in possession of
the ball. It will never be known why the Duffer chose to treat Cosmo
Kinloch's balls with utter scorn and contempt. The Duffer was tall,
strong, and a terrific slogger. Nobody expected him to make a run, but
he made twenty in one over--all boundary hits. When he left the wickets
he had added thirty-eight to the score, and wouldn't have changed places
with an emperor. The Rev. Septimus followed him into the room where the
players change.
"My dear boy," he said, "I've never been able to give you a gold watch,
but you must take mine; here it is, and--and God bless you!"
But the Duffer swore stoutly that he preferred his own Waterbury.
Eton went in to make 211 runs in four hours, upon a wicket almost as
sound as it had been upon the Friday. Scaife put the Duffer on to bowl.
The Demon had belief in luck.
"It's your day, Duffer," he said. "Pitch 'em up."
The Duffer, to his sire's exuberant satisfaction, "pitched 'em up" so
successfully that he took four wickets for 33. Four out of five! The
other bowlers, however, being not so successful, Eton accumulated a
hundred runs. The captains had agreed to draw stumps at 7.30. To win,
therefore, the Plain must make another hundred in two hours; and three of
their crack batsmen were out.
After tea an amazing change took place in the temper of the spectators.
Conviction seized them that the finish was likely to be close and
thrilling; that the one thing worth undivided attention was taking place
in the middle of the ground. As the minutes passed, a curious silence
fell upon the crowd, broken only by the cheers of the rival schools. The
boys, old and young alike, were watching every ball, every stroke. The
Eton captain was still in, playing steadily, not brilliantly; the Harrow
bowling was getting slack.
In the pavilion, the Rev. Septimus, Warde, and Charles Desmond were
sitting together. Not far from them was Scaife's father, a big, burly
man with a square head and heavy, strongly-marked features. He had never
been a cricketer, but this game gripped him. He sat next to a
world-famous financier of the great house of Neuchatel, whose sons had
been sent to the Hill. Run after run, run after run was added to the
score. Scaife's father turned to Neuchatel.
"I'd write a cheque for ten thousand pounds," he said, "if we could win."
Lionel Neuchatel nodded. "Yes," he muttered; "I have not felt so excited
since Sir Bevis won the Derby."
In the deep field Desmond was standing, miserable because he had nothing
to do. No balls came his way; for the Eton captain had made up his mind
to win this match with singles and twos. Very carefully he placed his
balls between the fielders; very carefully his partner followed his
chief's example. No stealing of runs, no scoring off straight balls, no
gallery play--till victory was assured.
Poor Lord Fawley retired at this point into an inner room, pulling
savagely at his white beard. Old Lyburn, who had been sitting beside
him, gurgling and gasping, staggered after him. The Rev. Septimus kept
wiping his forehead.
"I can't stand this much longer," said Warde, in a hoarse whisper.
"Well hit, sir! Well hit!"
The Eton cheering became frantic. After nearly an hour's pawky,
uninteresting play, the Eton captain suddenly changed his tactics. His
"eye" was in; now or never let him score. A half-volley came down from
the pavilion end--a half-volley and off the wicket. The Etonian put all
the strength and power he had suppressed so manfully into a tremendous
swipe, and hit the ball clean over the ropes.
"Do you want to double that bet?" said Strathpeffer to the Caterpillar.
They were standing on the top of the Trent coach.
"No, thanks."
"Give you two to one, Egerton?"
"Done--in fivers."
The unhappy bowler sent down another half-volley. Once more the Etonian
smote, and smote hard; but this ball was not quite the same as the first,
although it appeared identical. The ball soared up and up. Would it
fall over the ropes? Thousands of eyes watched its flight. Desmond
started to run. Golconda to a sixpence on the fall! It is falling,
falling, falling.
"He'll never get there in 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 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 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.