Suddenly a shrill-voiced boy sang out: 

“Put Ray on.  Give Ray a chance.”

The crowd took it up and roared out its instructions to put Ray on.  Bad form, I grant you, but then they scarcely knew what they were doing, for they were in an ecstasy of suspense and excitement.  The cry became formidable.  “Put Ray on.”  My face felt as if it had been scorched at the fire.  One boy roared out:  “Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray, hoo-blooming-Ray!”

The crowd laughed, and, while many inquired of one another:  “What did he say?  Do tell me,” the majority adopted the cry as a slogan.

“Hoo-Ray, hoo-Ray, hoo-blooming-Ray!”

Our captain deferred to the voice of public opinion.

“Take next over this end, Ray,” he said.

The permission was belated enough.  When amid terrific applause I faced Radley, there were only fourteen runs to be made and ten minutes to play.

But, then, I had only one wicket to take.  The pulsations of my heart were rapid—­but dull, deliberate, and heavy as a strong man’s fist.  I felt as though I had not eaten anything for weeks, nor was ever likely to eat again.  Honion shook his head; he saw that I was trembling.  Radley smiled encouragingly.  White said:  “For God’s sake, Ray, pull it off.”  And I murmured:  “Right.  I’ll try.”  I was surprised at the way my voice shook.

I took a quiet run (though my feet sounded noisily on the turf, owing to the breathless silence) and bowled.

“Wide!”

The crowd laughed, but it was the laugh of despair.  My second ball Radley hit for four.  My third followed it to the boundary.

“This’ll be Ray’s last over,” said the witty critics.  It was.  There were only five more runs to be made.  The ladies, preparing for departure, drew on their gloves.  Sedate gentlemen, who had removed top-hats from perspiring brows, brushed the silk with their sleeves.  Within a few minutes the innings victory would be won or lost.

Despair cured me of nerves.  I bowled my fourth ball without any excitement.  Radley fumbled and missed it.  He smiled grimly, twisted his bat round, adjusted the handle, and resumed his position at the block.

Murmurs of “Well bowled” reached me:  and so silent was the crowd and so still the evening, that I heard a voice saying to someone:  “That was a good ball, wasn’t it?  Absolutely beat him.  In a light like this—­”

Now I was trembling, if you like.  But it was not nerves.  It was confidence that the supreme moment of my schooldays was upon me.  I picked up the ball, muttering repeatedly but unconsciously:  “O God, make me do it.”  I turned and faced Radley.  As I took my short run, I felt perfectly certain that I should bowl him.  And the next thing I remember was seeing my master’s leg-bail fall to the ground.

All together, none before and none after the other, every male in the crowd bellowed forth the accumulated excitement of the day: