He was second-last man, and a dozen runs were yet required to win. Martin could hardly contain himself as he watched the bowler's run up to the crease. By luck, or skill, or both, the School had almost pulled the fat out of the fire—and it would be tantalizing if they were to fail now—within sight of victory.
Martin held his breath as the ball was delivered. None knew better than he that Faraday was nervous—he could see it in the batsman's stand, his whole attitude. Martin stood and looked ... and then executed a wild leap of excitement.
"Oh, good man! Good man!"
"Hit like a Trumper, sir!"
It was a splendid carpet-drive to the boundary, and it clicked against the railings with a sound that could be heard all over the field. Martin simply gasped. If only those two men could knock up a dozen between them, then—!
"Then," he yelled, slapping Screw on the back, "then we win—we win!"
Screw was equally excited, and the two of them could scarcely wait for the ball to be bowled. That first drive had done Faraday good—immense good. It had cooled him and steadied him. He set out in earnest to notch those few runs necessary for victory. He played with judgment that sent Martin into ecstasies—played with judgment that baffled the fieldsmen, eager as they were, and ready as they were to make him pay for the slightest mistake.
"Oh, boy! That's done it!" roared the School team, as Billy lifted the ball into the outfield, and the score of Windsor was overtaken. The two scores stood level—dead level. The bowler looked grim, and compressed his lips. Couldn't he somehow flatten this batsman with his next ball: Wasn't it possible to make it a drawn game, even at this stage?
It wasn't. Billy snicked the ball past square-leg, and ran it for two.
"Good-oh, the Billy-boy!"