And that is what Pip did. He bowled a very short ball, a very bad ball, a long-hop unspeakable, on the off side. Now, the batsman was expecting a good ball, and was prepared to present to it an immovable bat. But this thing, this despicable object which lobbed up so temptingly, ought he to spare it? "Take no risks," Hewett had said; but then Hewett was not expecting this demon bowler to send down tosh like this. Should he? Could he? Yes--no--yes! He raised his bat uncertainly, and made a half-hearted pull at the ball. It struck his bat somewhere on the splice,--the curl in the air had deceived one more victim,--flew up into the air, and, when it descended, found Pip waiting for it with a pair of hands that would at that moment have gripped a red-hot cannonball. So the innings ended for forty-nine, and the Hivites won by seventy-one runs. In two overs Pip had taken eight wickets (doing the hat-trick incidentally) for no runs. Verily, in a house-match all things are possible. He never accomplished such a feat again, though his seven wickets for seven runs against the Australians ten years later, and his four wickets in four balls, on that historic occasion when the Gentlemen beat the Players by an innings, were relatively far greater performances. He turned mechanically to the umpire and took his cap, and was in the act of unrolling his sleeves, when he was suddenly caught up, whirled aloft, and carried off towards the pavilion by a seething wave of frenzied Hivites. Those enthusiasts who were debarred from supporting any portion of him contented themselves with slapping outlying parts of his person and uttering discordant whoops. Somewhere beneath his left arm-pit Pip discovered the inflamed countenance of Master Mumford. "Where's young Simpson?" he screamed in that worthy's ear, not so much because he wished to know as to relieve the extreme tension of the situation. It was a senseless and inappropriate question, but it appeared to bring Mumford's cup of happiness to overflowing point. Laying his uncombed head upon Pip's horizontal stomach, with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, he gasped,-- "H-he went down to the house to g-get his k-kodak as soon as y-you were put on bowling, so as to phuph-photograph the winning hit. And oh, he s-said they would w-win by nine wickets! He h-hasn't got back yet." But he was wrong. There stood Master Simpson, ready to photograph the winning hit. But, like the Briton and the sportsman that he was, he made the best of a bad job and photographed Pip instead. And an enlarged copy of that snapshot hangs in Pip's smoking-room to-day, to witness if I lie. CHAPTER V LINKLATER I