's tactics was a correct one. He could
easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than
leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.

"Six to win!" cried Stephen; "I'm _certain_ Oliver will do it!"

"Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!" drily observed
Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy's indignation whenever any
one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.

"He's not a blockhead!" retorted Stephen, fiercely.

"Go it! Come and kick my legs, young 'un; there's no one near but
Loamy, and he can't hurt."

"Look here, you lame little wretch!" exclaimed Loman, in a passion; "if
I have any more of your impudence I'll box your ears!"

"I thought your wrist was sprained?" artlessly observed Pembury. "Here,
young Paul, let's get behind you, there's a good fellow, I _am_ in such
a funk!"

Whether Loman would have carried out his threat or not is doubtful, but
at that moment a terrific shout greeted another hit by Oliver--the best
he had made during the match--for which he ran four. One to tie, two to
win! will they do it?

It was a critical moment for Saint Dominic's. Had the two batsmen been
playing for their lives they could not have been more anxiously watched;
even Pembury became silent.

And now the last ball of the over is bowled in dead silence. Onlookers
can even hear the whizz with which it leaves Wren's hand.

It is almost wide, but Oliver steps out to it and just touches it.
Webster is half across the wickets already--ready for a bye. Oliver
calls to him to come on, and runs. It is a desperate shave--too
desperate for good play. But who cares for that when that run has
pulled the two sides level, and when, best of all, Oliver has got up to
the proper end for the next over?

Equal! What a shout greets the announcement! But it dies away
suddenly, and a new anxious silence ensues. The game is saved, but not
won; another run is wanted.

No one says a word, but the Fifth everywhere look on with a confidence
which is far more eloquent than words.

Raleigh is the bowler from the lower end, and the Sixth send out their
hearts to him. He may save them yet!

He runs, in his usual unconcerned manner, up to the wicket and delivers
the ball. It is one which there is but one way of playing--among the
slips.

Oliver understands it evidently, and, to the joy of the Fifth, plays it.
But why does their cheer drop suddenly, and why in a moment is