As they were going in to dinner Crawley had said to Saurin:
“You go in the first wicket down. You showed good form in the first innings, and it was a very unlucky ball that settled you so soon. But you will have a good chance again presently.” Which speech had the unintended effect of making Saurin more exasperated than ever. “Confound his patronising!” he said to himself; but he could not find any excuse for any audible utterance except the conventional “All right,” and he now drew on his gloves, took up his bat, and issued from the tent.
“Play careful cricket, Saurin,” said Robarts as he passed him; “the great thing is to keep Crawley at the wicket as long as we can.”
“A likely story!” he thought to himself as he strode across the turf, “to make myself a mere foil and stop-gap for that conceited brute! Not I.” Far from practising the abstinence of the other two, he had eaten as much as he could stuff and drunk all the beer he could get, and this, combined with resentment at Robarts’ words, caused him to go in for slogging just to show that he was not to be dictated to.
The first ball he got he hit as hard as he could, and well on to the ground, but it was cleverly stopped before a run could be made. The second he sent into the hands of the fielder standing at mid-wicket, who stuck to it, fast as it came, and threw it up amidst the cheers of his friends. Saurin stalked away with his duck’s egg.
Four more wickets fell before Crawley was run out, by which time he had scored 90 off his own bat, the total standing at 150. Thirty more was added before the Westonians were all out, and the score stood—first innings, 40; second, 180; total, 220, against 94. So that Hillsborough now had to make 126 to tie, and 127 to win.
It was a good match; anybody’s game. During the remainder of the afternoon Saurin behaved disgracefully. His temper had completely mastered him, and he was sulky and careless to an extent which made even Edwards ashamed for him. He let balls pass with hardly an attempt to stop them, picked them up and threw them in in a leisurely manner, which gave more than one run to the other side, and showed such indifference that he was hissed.
For every run was of importance. The fact was that Weston that year was decidedly weak in the bowling, Crawley being the only one to be depended upon, and he could not be kept at it for ever; and, though the fielding generally was good, the Hillsburians scored fast. At seven o’clock they were 100 for seven wickets, and the excitement was very great when Crawley, who had had an hour’s interval, went on once more to bowl.
His first ball was cut for five. His second took the middle stump clean. His third came back into his hands. His fourth, the nastiest of shooters, glided under the bat into the wicket. Three wickets in three consecutive balls—something like a sensational over!
