“Sneaks!” said Long-Baddeley.
Hamlin waved his field in nearer. Lionel, at square leg, drew so near the batsman that Margot trembled for his safety. And Hamlin, delivering his ball, followed it valiantly halfway up the pitch. Point stationed himself four yards from the crease. The mighty Tibber fell to these tactics. Point took the ball almost from the bottom of the bat, and said politely, “Thank you.” Four wickets to fall and sixteen minutes to go!
The seventh wicket fell five minutes later to a ball that pitched three feet wide of the stumps on the off side and then nicked off the leg bail.
Three and eleven!
The granfers had shouted themselves thirsty and hoarse. One patriarch announced his intentions, “if so be as we win, I’ll carry more good ale to-night than any man o’ my years in Wiltsheer.”
Excitement gripped Margot and Joyce. Every stroke was cheered and counter-cheered. Derisive comment winged its way to the pitch from every point of the compass, and from every mouth, male and female. Lady Pomfret discovered that she had split a new pair of gloves. Above the Squire’s white coat glowed a face red as the harvest sun, now declining through a haze. Fordingbridge exhorted his men to endure patiently to the end.
Three wickets to fall and seven minutes to go!
At this crisis Lionel distinguished himself and wiped out the grievous memory of a dropped catch in the first innings. A stalwart son of Long-Baddeley smote hard at a ball pitched too short, pulling it savagely to leg. Lionel held it convulsively.
“Good boy,” said the Squire, wiping his forehead.
Even the ranks of Tuscany cheered.