The match is nearly over, and it looks as if Wyndham will be able to see the end of it. Nine wickets are down for forty-nine, and five runs must yet be scored to save Templeton from a single-innings defeat.
The last man begins ominously, for he makes two off his first ball. Willoughby presses round, breathless, to watch the next. It whizzes over the wicket, but does no harm. The next ball—one of Forbes’s shooters—strikes on the batsman’s pad.
“How’s that, umpire?” yells every one.
“Not out!” says old Wyndham.
The next ball comes—but before it has left the bowler’s hand young Wyndham has begun to run. Loud shouts and laughter follow his headlong progress.
“Well run, sir; put it on!” scream Parson and Telson.
“Stop thief!” howl Bosher and his friends.
“He’s gaining, there! Pull yourself together!” cry Cusack and Pilbury.
Heedless of these familiar cheers—for lately this has been a daily performance—Wyndham saves his honour at two seconds to six, the identical moment when Forbes’s last ball sends the Templeton bails flying high over long-stop’s head, and Willoughby is proclaimed winner of the match by one innings and three runs.
A jovial party assembles an hour later for “high tea” in the captain’s study.