The Hivites made a hundred and seventy-eight,—not a bad score, as house-matches go. Then the Hittites took the field. They sent in a red-headed youth named Evans, and a long, lean individual who rejoiced in the thoroughly incongruous nickname of "Tiny." He played with an appallingly straight bat, but seldom took liberties with the bowling.
The opening of the innings was not eventful. House-matches are very much alike as a class. Everybody knows everybody else's game to a nicety, and the result is usually a question of nerves. Tiny and Evans poked systematically and exasperatingly at every ball sent down; the clumps of dark-blue Hittites and pink Hivites round the field subsided into recumbent apathy; and Pip, who was fielding at short slip, began to feel that if house-matches were all as dull as this one he might get through without further disgracing himself.
But Marsh, the bowler, was also a cricketer. He saw that Evans, who was not naturally a defensive player, was getting very tired of poking to order, and resolved to tempt him. He accordingly sent down one of the worst balls ever seen on the school pitch. Evans wavered for a moment, but, remembering his orders, let it go by. It was followed by another, exactly like it: once again Evans restrained his itching bat. But the third was too much for him, and he smote it incontinently over the ropes, to the huge delight of the Hittites.
"Now he's got his eye in!" remarked Master Simpson of the Hittites to Master Mumford, who was sitting beside him on the railings.
"Rot!" replied that youth, as in duty bound, but without conviction. "Any ass could see that Marsh gave him that ball on purpose."
"On purpose? What for?" inquired Simpson doubtfully.
"What a question to ask!" replied Mumford, casting about for an answer. "Of course you don't know enough about the game, but the reason why Marsh bowled that particular ball was—Hooray! Hoor-a-a-ay-ee-ah-ooh! Well held, sir! What did I say, young Simpson?"
For Evans, throwing caution to the winds, had lashed out at a good ball, the last of Marsh's over, and it was now reposing safely in the hands of Mid-off.
Another disaster befell the Hittites a few minutes later. Tiny, who had been stepping out and playing forward with the irritating accuracy of an automaton, played just inside a ball from the Hivite fast bowler, Martin. The ball glanced off his bat, and almost at the same moment Pip became conscious of a violent pain, suggestive of red-hot iron, in his right arm-pit. He clapped his hand to the part affected, and to his astonishment drew forth the ball, to a storm of applause from the delighted Hivites, while Tiny retired, speechless and scarlet, to the Pavilion.
But trouble was in store for the Hivites. The two new batsmen were the opposing captain, one Hewett, a smiter of uncompromising severity, and a somewhat amorphous and pimply youth, destitute of nerves, who was commonly addressed as "Scrabbler." These twain treated the firm of Marsh and Martin with a disrespect that amounted almost to discourtesy. The score rose from forty-five to a hundred, and from a hundred to a hundred and thirty-five, notwithstanding the substitution of two fresh bowlers of established reputation and fair merit. The Hivites began to look unhappy. Their fielding, which hitherto had been well up to the mark, now deteriorated; and when the Scrabbler was missed at the wicket from a snick that was heard all over the ground, Master Simpson became so offensive that Mumford found it necessary to withdraw out of earshot.