h ball on the off stump past mid on to the boundary, and
the hundred went up amid cheers.

"It is a mystery to me," said Foster, "how that man Caruthers ever gets
a run at all; he has no defence, and hits straight across everything."

"Don't let's worry about that," said Collins; "sufficient be it that he
is hitting these Buller's swine all over the place. Oh, good shot!"

A half-volley had landed first bounce among the masters sitting under
the wall. The umpire signalled six.

One hundred and fifty went up.

And then Gordon mistimed a slow yorker, and was clean bowled for
eighty-five.

He was received with a storm of clapping; the House lined up cheering as
he ran in between the ropes.

"Gratters! Well done!" shouted Foster. "That's a damned fine knock to
finish your Fernhurst cricket days with! Well done!"

Everyone came up and congratulated him. It was a proud moment, in some
ways the proudest of his whole career.

A few minutes later another burst of clapping signalled the end of the
innings. The side had made one hundred and eighty-six. Buller's were
left with two hundred and twenty-three to win. Anything might happen.
Just before five Foster led the House on to the field.

The next hour and a half was fraught with delirious happiness and
excitement. Foster bowled magnificently, Bradford managed to keep a
length; the whole side fielded splendidly. Wicket after wicket fell.
Victory became a certainty. Gloom descended over the Buller's side.
Round the pavilion infants with magenta hat ribbons yelled themselves
hoarse. It was one of those occasions in which eternity seems compressed
into an hour. Half-past six came. No one went up to tea, everyone was
waiting for the end. At last it came. Whitaker, who alone had been able
to withstand the School House attack, over-reached himself, Gordon
gathered the ball quickly, the bails flew off. The umpire's hand rose. A
wild shriek rose from the crowd. Gordon's last game at Fernhurst was
over; his last triumph had come; at last "Samson had quit himself like
Samson." Through the lines of shrieking juniors the team passed into the
pavilion. Gordon began to collect his things, to pack up his bag. He
gave it to a fag to carry up.

Collins and Foster and Gordon walked up from the field arm in arm.

"Well, if we stopped on here for a hundred years," said Foster, "we
shouldn't find a better hour to leave."

"Yes, the end has made up for any disappointments on the way. It