"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 hand, 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. Pa.s.s 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 had 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--m.u.f.fs it! Derisive remarks from Rev.

Septimus.

"Well caught! Well held! Tha-a-nks!"

The Caterpillar would p.r.o.nounce 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 gra.s.s; 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.