whom he had shaped so precariously the over before last.
George Grimwood might have been seen shifting from foot to foot, and jingling pence in his accomplished palm. Another of those near things was not wanted this over, with the whole match hanging to it, and Mr. Stratten still looking like that. . . .
A bit better, was that! A nice two for Mr. Devereux to the unprotected off—no!—blessed if they aren't running again! They must be daft; one of them'll be out, one of 'em must be! No—a bad return—but Mr. Cave has it now. How beautifully this gentleman always throws! You wouldn't think it of him, to see him crossing over, or even batting or bowling; he's got a return like a young cannon, and here it comes!
No umpire will be able to give this in; there's Mr. Rutter a good two yards down the pitch, legging it for dear life; and here comes the ball like a bullet. He's out if it doesn't miss the wicket after all; but it does miss it, by a coat of varnish, and ricochets to the boundary for other four, that win the match for the school, the ultimate honour of three figures for Evan Devereux, and peace beyond this racket for George Grimwood.
Over the ground swarm the whole school like a small Surrey crowd, but Evan and Jan have been too quick for them; they break through the swift outer fringe; and it is not Lord's or the Oval after all. Nobody cares so much who wins this match, it's the magnificent finish that matters and will matter while the school exists.
So the dense mass before the pavilion parts in two, and the smiling Old Boys march through the lane; but it does not close up again until Rutter has come out and given Devereux his colours in the dear old way, by taking
