The Hill Part 42

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 pa.s.sed, 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 b.a.l.l.s between the fielders; very carefully his partner followed his chief's example. No stealing of runs, no scoring off straight b.a.l.l.s, no gallery play--till victory was a.s.sured.

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 hoa.r.s.e 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 had to pa.s.s Caesar on his way, and pa.s.sing 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 b.a.l.l.s?

"Well bowled--well bowled!"

A ball of fair length, easy enough to play under all ordinary circ.u.mstances, 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 n.o.ble 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--