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.[37] 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.