Alas, my son Jack, the enemy is too old for thee.  The first ball of the over Jack steps out and meets, swiping with all his force.  If he had only allowed for the twist!  But he hasn’t, and so the ball goes spinning up straight in the air, as if it would never come down again.  Away runs Jack, shouting and trusting to the chapter of accidents; but the bowler runs steadily under it, judging every spin, and calling out, “I have it,” catches it, and playfully pitches it on to the back of the stalwart Jack, who is departing with a rueful countenance.

“I knew how it would be,” says Tom, rising.  “Come along; the game’s getting very serious.”

So they leave the island and go to the tent; and after deep consultation, Arthur is sent in, and goes off to the wicket with a last exhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight.  To the suggestions that Winter is the best bat left, Tom only replies, “Arthur is the steadiest, and Johnson will make the runs if the wicket is only kept up.”

“I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven,” said the master, as they stood together in front of the dense crowd, which was now closing in round the ground.

“Well, I’m not quite sure that he ought to be in for his play,” said Tom, “but I couldn’t help putting him in.  It will do him so much good, and you can’t think what I owe him.”

The master smiled.  The clock strikes eight, and the whole field becomes fevered with excitement.  Arthur, after two narrow escapes, scores one, and Johnson gets the ball.  The bowling and fielding are superb, and Johnson’s batting worthy the occasion.  He makes here a two, and there a one, managing to keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs perfectly.  Only eleven runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe.  At last Arthur gets the ball again, and actually drives it forward for two, and feels prouder than when he got the three best prizes, at hearing Tom’s shout of joy, “Well played, well played, young un!”

But the next ball is too much for the young hand, and his bails fly different ways.  Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go down:  it is too much for human nerves.

Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to take the Lord’s men to the train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislabie and Tom consult, and give out that the stumps will be drawn after the next over.  And so ends the great match.  Winter and Johnson carry out their bats, and, it being a one day’s match, the Lord’s men are declared the winners, they having scored the most in the first innings.

But such a defeat is a victory:  so think Tom and all the School eleven, as they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them off with three ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie has shaken hands all round, saying to Tom, “I must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and I hope we shall have you for a member if you come up to town.”