“Yes! Stephen is in now,” his father answered. “If he gets out, the match is over.”
“Who is the other batsman?” Deyes asked.
“Antill, the second bailiff,” Mr. Hurd answered. “He’s captain, and he can stay in all day, but he can’t make runs.”
They all leaned forward to witness the continuation of the match. Stephen Hurd’s career was brief and inglorious. He took guard and looked carefully round the field with the air of a man who is going to give trouble. Then he saw the victoria, with its vision of parasols and fluttering laces, and the sight was fatal to him. He slogged wildly at the first ball, missed it, and paid the penalty. The lady in the carriage frowned, and Mr. Hurd muttered something under his breath as he watched his son on the way back to the tent.
“I’m afraid it’s all up with us now,” he remarked. “We have only three more men to go in.”
“Then we are going to be beaten,” Wilhelmina remarked.
“I’m afraid so,” Mr. Hurd assented gloomily.
The next batsman had issued from the tent and was on his way to the wicket. Wilhelmina, who had been about to give an order to the footman, watched him curiously.
“Who is that going in?” she asked abruptly.