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.
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.
A dry summer had made the pitch rather fiery. The ball, short-pitched, whizzes just over Cæsar'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 Cæsar 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--
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 to that! The ball grazes the top edge of the bat's blade and flies straight into the welcoming hands of the wicket-keeper.