Their defeat by an innings and fifty-three runs they attributed subsequently to the fact that only seven of the team could be induced to go to the wickets in the second venture.
"So you've managed to win a match," grunted Henfrey, "I should like to have been there."
"You might just as well have been," said Clephane, "from what they tell me."
At which Henfrey became abusive, for he had achieved an "egg" that afternoon, and missed a catch; which things soured him, though Day's had polished off Dexter's handsomely.
"Well," he said at length, "you're in the semi-final now, of all weird places. You'd better play Spence's next. When can you play?"
"Henfrey," said Clephane, "I have a bright, open, boyish countenance, but I was not born yesterday. You want to get a dangerous rival out of the way without trouble, so you set Shields' to smash up Spence's. No, Henfrey. I do not intend to be your catspaw. We will draw lots who is to play which. Here comes Jackson. We'll toss odd man out."
And when the coins fell there were two tails and one head; and the head belonged to the coin of Clephane.
"So, you see," he said to Henfrey, "Shields' is in the final. No wonder you wanted us to scratch."
I should like this story to end with a vivid description of a tight finish. Considering that Day's beat Spence's, and consequently met Shields' in the final, that would certainly be the most artistic ending. Henfrey batting—Clephane bowling—one to tie, two to win, one wicket to fall. Up goes the ball! Will the lad catch it!! He fumbles it. It falls. All is over. But look! With a supreme effort—and so on.
The real conclusion was a little sensational in its way, but not nearly so exciting as that.