Within half an hour’s time a hundred and five for eight had become a hundred and fifty. Under the kindly influence of his excellent champagne cup Mr. Marston had decided to give the ecclesiastical student another opportunity of justifying his reputation. He did not redeem that reputation. He sent down two overs, which resulted—in addition to three wides and a “no ball”—in twenty-five runs; and a hundred and fifty would take a lot of getting. Indeed, Mr. Marston’s XI. never looked at all like getting them.
Roland, who was sent in first, was caught at short leg in the second over; it was off a bad ball and a worse stroke—a slow, long hop that he hit right across, and skied. He was bitterly disappointed. He did not mind making ducks; it was all in the run of a game, and he never minded if he was got out by a good ball. But it was hard on such a day to throw away one’s wicket.
“Very bad luck indeed,” said Muriel, as he reached the pavilion.
“Not bad luck, bad play!” he remarked good humoredly. Having taken off his pads he sat down beside her and watched the game. It was not particularly exciting; wickets fell with great regularity. Mr. Marston made a few big hits, and his son stayed in for a little while without doing anything much more than keep his end up. In the end the total reached a hundred and thirteen, and in a one-day match a first innings result was usually final. But Mr. Marston was not at all despondent. He refused to wait for the tea interval and led his side straight on to the field.
“We don’t want any rest,” he said. “Most of us have rested the whole afternoon, and those of the other side who are not batting can have tea.”
It was now four-thirty; two hours remained before the drawing of stumps, and from now on the game became really exciting. Marston took two wickets in his first over, and at the other end a man was run out. Three wickets were down for two runs; a panic descended upon the villagers. The cobbler was sent in to join the doctor, with strict instructions not to hit on any account. The cobbler was not used to passive resistance; he played carefully for a couple of overs, then a faster ball from Marston found the edge of the bat. Short slip was for him, providentially, asleep, and the umpire signaled a four. This seemed to throw him off his balance.
“It is no good,” he said. “If I start mucking about like that I don’t stand the foggiest chance of sticking in. I’m going to have a hit.”
At the next ball he did have a hit—right across it, and his middle stump fell flat.
After this there was no serious attempt to wear down the bowling. Rustic performers—each with a style more curious than the last—drove length balls on the off stump in the direction of long on. Wickets fell quickly. The score rose; and by the time the innings was over only an hour was left for play, and ninety-two runs were required to win—ninety-two runs against time in a fading light, on a wicket that had been torn up by hob-nailed boots, was not the easiest of tasks.
“Still, we must have a shot for it,” Mr. Marston said. “We cannot be more than beaten, and we are that already.”