“Out!” said the Staveleigh umpire, who judged at that end.
Up went the ball into the air, amid great excitement of the natives.
Ruperta, carried away by the general enthusiasm, nodded all sparkling to Compton, and that made his heart beat and his soul aspire. So next over he claimed his rights, and took the ball. Luck still befriended him: he bowled four wickets in twelve overs; the wicket-keeper stumped a fifth: the rest were “the tail,” and disposed of for a few runs, and the total was no more than Huntercombe's first innings.
Our hero then took the bat, and made forty-seven runs before he was disposed of, five wickets down for a hundred and ten runs. The match was not won yet, nor sure to be; but the situation was reversed.
On going out, he was loudly applauded; and Ruperta naturally felt proud of her admirer.
Being now free, he came to her irresolutely with some iced champagne.
Ruperta declined, with thanks; but he looked so imploringly that she sipped a little, and said, warmly, “I hope we shall win: and, if we do, I know whom we shall have to thank.”
“And so do I: you, Miss Bassett.”
“Me? Why, what have I done in the matter?”
“You brought us luck, for one thing. You put us on our mettle. Staveleigh shall never beat me, with you looking on.”