Of course they had to follow on, and as the time was short, it was agreed to curtail the usual interval, and finish up the match straight away.
So Grandcourt went in again, and although it fared somewhat better, was still unable to stem the tide of defeat.

With 135 to get in order to avoid a single innings defeat, it was only natural they did not settle down to their task very cheerfully or hopefully.

Pledge still sent down a ruthless fire from one end; and seemed even to improve with exercise.
Nor was he badly backed up at the other end by Cresswell; while Mansfield, at the wicket, and Ponty, at point, seemed, as it were, to help themselves to the ball off the end of the bat, whenever they liked.
By painful, plodding hard work, Grandcourt put up their hundred, and it spoke well for the chivalry of the victorious seventy, that they cheered the three figures as loudly as any one.
It was uphill work trying to hold out for the remaining 35 runs.

But the losers were Englishmen, and long odds brought out their good qualities.

With solemn, almost ferocious, faces, the two last men in clung to their bats, and blocked, blocked, blocked, stealing now a bye, pilfering now a run out of the slips, and once or twice getting on the right side of a lob with a swipe that drew the hearts of Templeton into their mouths.
A score of runs did those two add on to their hundred, and the seventy groaned as the chances of a single innings victory dwindled run by run.
"Most frightful soak if they do us," said Dick, addressing the audience generally.