“Six wickets in three quarters of an hour?” “But there’s not another Wilman or Swallow.” “We shan’t get _him_ in a hurry.” “Even if we don’t I believe I can run through the rest.” “You’re a wonder!” exclaimed Evan, then drew still nearer and dropped his voice. “I say, Jan!” “What is it? There’s a man in.” “If you did get them I might still go by myself this afternoon.” “Rot!” “I’d have time if you put me in as late as I deserve. I can fight my own battle. I really——” “Shut up, will you? Man in!” Two overs later the new batsman had succumbed to Jan after a lofty couple through the slips; but A. G. Swallow had begun to force the game in a manner more delightful to watch from the ring than at close quarters. He did not say it was his only chance. He was too old a hand to discuss casualties with the enemy. He kept his own counsel in the now frequent intervals, but his keen eyes sparkled with appreciation of the attack (from one end) and with zest in the exercise of his own higher powers. Enterprise and defense had not been demanded of him in such equal measure for some past time; and yet with all his preoccupation he had a fatherly eye upon the young bowler who was making this tax upon his tried resources. Really, on his day, the boy was good enough to bowl for almost any side; and he seemed quite a nice boy, too, to A. G. Swallow, though perhaps a little rough. As to unpopularity, there was no sign of that now; that good-looking little chap at mid-off seemed fond enough of him; and he was not the only one. At the fall of each wicket a bigger and more enthusiastic band surrounded the heroic bowler; the cheers were louder from every quarter. If an unpopular fellow could achieve this popular success, well, it said all the more for his pluck and personality. Eight wickets were down for 95, and Jan had taken every one of them, before Stratten stayed with Swallow and there was another stand. Stratten was only a moderate bats, but he had been two years in the team with Jan, and three years in the same house, and he knew how to throw his left leg across to the ball that looked as though it wanted cutting. He had never made 30 runs off Jan in a game, and he did not make 10 to-day, but he stayed while the score rose to 130 and the clock crept round to 1.15; then he spoilt Jan’s chance of all ten wickets by being caught in the country off a half-volley from Goose—last hope at the other end. Swallow had crossed before the catch was made, and he trotted straight up to Jan in the slips. “Hard luck, Rutter! I hoped you were going to set up a new school record.” “I don’t care as long as we get you all out before lunch.” Jan was wiping the cluster of beads from his forehead, and dashing more from the peak of his cap before pulling it down once more over his nose. He only saw his mistake when A. G. Swallow looked at him with a smile. “Why before lunch, with the afternoon before us?”