"Ah, it is a follow-on, then.

There go our fellows to field again." Just as the second innings of Templeton is half-over, a melancholy figure crosses the Big from the school and makes its way to the tent.
It is young Wyndham, whose half-hour's liberty has come round at last, and who now has come to witness the achievements of that second-eleven in which, alas! he may not play.
However, he does not waste his time in growling, but cheers vociferously every piece of good fielding, and his voice becomes an inspiriting feature of the innings.

But you can see, by the way he is constantly looking at his watch, that his liberty is limited, and that soon, like Cinderella at midnight, he must vanish once more into obscurity.

He knows to half a second how long it takes him to run from the tent to the schoolhouse, and at one minute and twelve seconds to six, whatever he is doing, he will bolt like mad to his quarters.
Before, however, his time is half-over the captain joins him.
"Well, old man," says the latter, "I wish you were playing.

It's hard lines for you." "Not a bit--( Well thrown up, Gamble!)--not a bit hard lines," says the boy.