a semi-final. It was the wealth of Dives against the widow's
mite that the winner of this match would defeat easily either of the two
remaining houses. And not a man or boy on the ground could name with any
conviction the better eleven. The betting languished at evens.

Moreover, both sides were playing "canny," risking nothing, nursing
their energies for the last furious five minutes. Damer began to fidget;
than he dropped out of the front rank of spectators. He couldn't stand
still to see his boys win--or lose. He paced up and down behind the
fags, who winked at each other.

"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.

Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of High Life below
Stairs.

"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.

"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that every minute
improves our chance, but if it goes on _much_ longer," he added
phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. My 'eart's weak, my lord."

This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it were brand-new,
and received by the fags in a like spirit.

"Bless you, you've got no heart, Dumber. It's turned into tummy long
ago," or, in scathing accents, "It's not your heart that's out of whack,
Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What a pity you can't buy a
new one!" and so on and so forth.

Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excitement began to shake the
spectators. They felt it up and down their spinal columns; it formed
itself into lumps in their throats; it gave one or two cramp in the
calves of their legs; it reddened many cheeks and whitened as many more.
The Caterpillar pulled out his watch.

"Three and a half minutes," he announced in a voice which fell like the
crack of doom upon the silent crowd. If they could have cheered or
chaffed! But the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle
prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried through a scrimmage,
escaped to the right, slid out to the left, only to be returned whence
it came. It seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and when
kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if weighted by the ever-increasing
burden of suspense....

"Now--now's your chance!" yelled the Manorites. To their flaming senses
the ball appeared to be lying, a huge blurred sphere, upon the muddy
grass; and the Elevens were stupidly staring at it. The Saints be
praised! Some fellow can move. Who is it? The players, big and little,
are so daubed with mud from head to