The cricketers of Windsor were keen, and generally managed to make a decent struggle. Last year, in fact, they had beaten Deepwater; and the collegers were burning to avenge that defeat this time. But, as sometimes happens, there was a dearth of good cricketers at the College—their team was lacking the one or two brilliant players that pull a side out of the ruck.
"All mediocrities, every man Jack of 'em," said Martin, the captain of cricket at Deepwater. "If they all played on their top form, we'd scratch up an average score. But the worst of the beggars is, they're so jolly unreliable. Might make a good hatful of runs one day, and a blob the next."
Silver, who was a fair bat when he got really set, nodded in gloomy sympathy. "And this year we want a Trumper so badly," he replied. "Remember the way the townies jeered at us last time? And they didn't beat us by much. This year, it seems to me, matters will be worse. Why, if London, or Scott, or any of our green men get the barracking really warmly, then they'll just crumple up. Almost puts me off my play, and I'm an old bird. Martin, old chap, it looks bad."
"Well, better luck next time," said Martin.
Screw, the third selector of the team, a player from Cooper's House, sighed and cast his eye over the team-list, which, scribbled hastily in pencil lay on the study table before them. "This is an inclusive team—not an exclusive," he remarked, tapping his teeth with his pencil. "What about Faraday—is he worth his place?"
Silver considered. "Well," he answered, at length, "that fellow's a bit of a puzzle. One match he's a rattling good player, and the next he's a hopeless duffer. I suppose, though, he'd better go in. He's a good sort."
"Not that we want them because they're good sorts," said Screw sharply. "I've more than one decent bat over in Cooper's, and only I happen to have seen Faraday—"
"Oh, there's no question, when he's in top form," said Martin. "Look here, we've got the thing practically settled. What about drafting that notice out and getting it on the board? Turn the blighters out for practice—we've simply got to make some sort of a show."
When the Saturday appointed for the match came round, the show that the Deepwater fellows made was, as Silver said, "rather contemptible."
The Windsor team, electing to go to the wickets, knocked up a breezy 276—then came the great debacle. The School, despite its strenuous efforts, scraped together a mere 95.