The clock strikes eight, and the whole field becomes
fevered with excitement. Arthur, after two narrow escapes, scores one,
and Johnson gets the ball. The bowling and fielding are superb, and
Johnson's batting worthy the occasion. He makes here a two, and there a
one, managing to keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs
perfectly. Only eleven runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe.
At last Arthur gets the ball again, and actually drives it forward
for two, and feels prouder than when he got the three best prizes, at
hearing Tom's shout of joy, "Well played, well played, young un!"
But the next ball is too much for the young hand, and his bails fly
different ways. Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go down: it is too
much for human nerves.
Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to take the Lord's men
to the train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislabie and Tom
consult, and give out that the stumps will be drawn after the next over.
And so ends the great match. Winter and Johnson carry out their bats,
and, it being a one day's match, the Lord's men are declared the
winners, they having scored the most in the first innings.
But such a defeat is a victory: so think Tom and all the School eleven,
as they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them off
with three ringing cheers, after Mr.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384