"What's the odds to Ponty ?" thought the seventy, marvelling how any one could look so unconcerned at such a crisis.
Pledge bowled one of his finest, awkwardest, most disconcerting slows.
The cautious batsman was proof against its syren-like allurements, and stepped back to block what any one else would have stepped forward to slog.

The ball broke up sharp against his bat, and Grandcourt began to breathe again as they saw its progress arrested.
But at that particular moment it appeared to enter dear old Ponty's head to take his hand out of his pocket and stroll forward a pace or two from his place at point in the direction of the wicket.

And somehow or another it seemed to him that while he was there he might as well pick up the ball, as it dropped off the end of the bat on its way to the ground.
Which he did.

And as every one looked on, and wondered what little game he was up to, it occurred to the umpire that it was a catch, and that the match was at an end.
Whereupon, the truth flashed round the field like an electric shock, and the crowds broke into the meadow in wild excitement, while the seventy, crimson with cheers, formed column and went for their men.
Poor Ponty had a hard time of it getting back to the tent, and half repented of his feat.

But it did him and Templeton good, when they came upon the headquarters of Grandcourt, to hear the hearty cheers with which the vanquished hailed their victors.
Chivalry is infectious.