Stumps were to be drawn at seven promptly. As the minutes slipped by, Nether-Applewhite realised sorrowfully that Time had ranged himself with the enemy. Long ago, they had abandoned the hope of scoring runs. Each batsman was instructed to block the bowling, to hold the fort defensively. Five wickets had fallen for some sixty runs, and the best batsmen were out. Could the tail of the team wag on for twenty minutes? Hamlin put himself on to bowl lobs, twisting, curling, underhand balls. At Cambridge, long ago, the head of his College, the illustrious Master of Trinity, had made a jest upon Hamlin’s bowling. Presenting a prize set of books, he had remarked blandly, “Hamlin, you are the only undergraduate I know who has combined underhand practices with stainless integrity.” “Sneaks!” said Long-Baddeley. Hamlin waved his field in nearer. Lionel, at square leg, drew so near the batsman that Margot trembled for his safety. And Hamlin, delivering his ball, followed it valiantly halfway up the pitch. Point stationed himself four yards from the crease. The mighty Tibber fell to these tactics. Point took the ball almost from the bottom of the bat, and said politely, “Thank you.” Four wickets to fall and sixteen minutes to go! The seventh wicket fell five minutes later to a ball that pitched three feet wide of the stumps on the off side and then nicked off the leg bail. Three and eleven! The granfers had shouted themselves thirsty and hoarse. One patriarch announced his intentions, “if so be as we win, I’ll carry more good ale to-night than any man o’ my years in Wiltsheer.” Excitement gripped Margot and Joyce. Every stroke was cheered and counter-cheered. Derisive comment winged its way to the pitch from every point of the compass, and from every mouth, male and female. Lady Pomfret discovered that she had split a new pair of gloves. Above the Squire’s white coat glowed a face red as the harvest sun, now declining through a haze. Fordingbridge exhorted his men to endure patiently to the end. Three wickets to fall and seven minutes to go! At this crisis Lionel distinguished himself and wiped out the grievous memory of a dropped catch in the first innings. A stalwart son of Long-Baddeley smote hard at a ball pitched too short, pulling it savagely to leg. Lionel held it convulsively. “Good boy,” said the Squire, wiping his forehead. Even the ranks of Tuscany cheered. Two and five! Could it be done? Candour compels us to state that Fabian tactics might have succeeded, had not Fordingbridge been present. He, good sportsman, suffered no exasperating delays. Batsmen dared not tarry, drawing on their gloves. One and three! George Mucklow took heart of grace. Funk exuded from every pore of the tenth batsman’s skin as he, like George, tremblingly asked the umpire for block. “Block be damned!” shouted his lordship. “Hit the next ball to the boundary, and I’ll give you a fiver.”