Title: Willow the king : The story of a cricket match
Author: Snaith, J. C. (John Collis)
Language: English
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WILLOW THE KING



  WILLOW THE KING

  The Story of a Cricket
  Match

  BY
  J. C. SNAITH

  AUTHOR OF “FIERCEHEART, THE SOLDIER,” “MISTRESS DOROTHY MARVIN,”
  ETC., ETC.

  _ILLUSTRATED BY LUCIEN DAVIS, R.I._

  LONDON
  WARD, LOCK AND CO. LIMITED
  NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE



  TO MY COLLEAGUES OF THE
  NOTTINGHAM FOREST
  AMATEUR CRICKET CLUB



CONTENTS


                                                        PAGE

  CHAPTER I

  THE NIGHT BEFORE                                         9


  CHAPTER II

  COMING EVENTS                                           19


  CHAPTER III

  LITTLE CLUMPTON _v._ HICKORY                            34


  CHAPTER IV

  AN IMPOSSIBLE INCIDENT                                  47


  CHAPTER V

  THE CUSSEDNESS OF CRICKET                               64


  CHAPTER VI

  OF A YOUNG PERSON IN BROWN HOLLAND                      81


  CHAPTER VII

  CONVERSATIONAL                                          97


  CHAPTER VIII

  A CRICKET LUNCH                                        106


  CHAPTER IX

  RECORD BREAKING                                        128


  CHAPTER X

  THE END OF THE DAY                                     142


  CHAPTER XI

  CUPID PUTS HIS PADS ON                                 155


  CHAPTER XII

  MY FIRST COUNTY MATCH                                  171


  CHAPTER XIII

  A CASE OF HEREDITY                                     199


  CHAPTER XIV

  IN WHICH I AM MORE SINNED AGAINST THAN SINNING         213


  CHAPTER XV

  FACING THE MUSIC                                       230


  CHAPTER XVI

  A TELEGRAM FROM STODDART                               248


  CHAPTER XVII

  A FEW OF ITS CONSEQUENCES                              262


  CHAPTER XVIII

  I RECEIVE INSTRUCTION IN A HEART-BREAKING SCIENCE      272


  CHAPTER XIX

  A CASE FOR M.C.C.                                      285


  CHAPTER XX

  A CASE FOR ANOTHER EMINENT AUTHORITY                   298



CHAPTER I

The Night Before


IT was the eve of Little Clumpton _versus_ Hickory. To those who are
unfamiliar with these haunts of ancient peace this may seem a chronicle
of the infinitely little. The Utopians, however, dwelling there remote,
were quite aware that Waterloo, nay, even the Battle of Omdurman, was a
picnic in comparison with Little Clumpton _versus_ Hickory. Therefore
let the nations heed.

Half our team were sitting in my billiard-room discussing the prospects
of the morrow. Opinion really was unanimous for once: Little Clumpton
_must_ not lose.

“Lose!” said the Optimist grandly, “is it England, or is it Hickory?”

“Only Hickory,” said the Pessimist, “and the Trenthams.”

“It can be W. G. and Jackson, if they like to bring ’em,” said the
Optimist; “and then they’ll finish sick. They’ll simply flop before
Charlie’s ribsters, and Billy’s slows.”

“H’m!” said the Pessimist.

“Think so?” said the Worry.

“Certain,” said the Optimist. “Before now we’ve had ’em out for fifty.”

“Yes,” said the Pessimist, “and before now we’ve had ’em out for three
hundred and fifty.”

“But,” said the Humourist, “I hadn’t developed my head-ball then.”

The Humourist would find it as difficult to exist without his
“head-ball,” as Attewell without his gentle maiden.

“Well, I suppose it all depends upon the weather,” said the Worry, with
his usual inconsequence. “How’s the glass?”

“Quite well, thank you,” said the Humourist, brandishing a huge whisky
and Apollinaris.

“Going down,” said the Treasurer, with great gloominess. The Treasurer
had been elected to his dignity because it was feared that he was
Scotch on his mother’s side.

Here the Captain came into the conversation. He took his corn-cob
slowly from his mouth, pressed the tobacco down with that air of
simple majesty that is the hall-mark of the great, and then began
to smoke again in a very solemn manner. This, for the Captain, was
a speech. And as it is only the fool who can speak without giving
himself away, this was as it should be. His words were fit though few.
Hence the tradition, that though he didn’t say much his ideas were
very beautiful. The Secretary regularly sat in a listening attitude
behind his chair, so that if by any chance the great man did commit
an utterance, he could jot it down upon his cuff. And it was an open
secret that every time the Secretary changed his shirt he entered the
Captain’s requests for a milk and soda or a pipe-light in the archives
of the Club.

The Captain was the gentlest of men. There was a suavity in his
coffee-coloured face and his pale blue eye that grew positively weird
in one who was good for another fifty every time he had the screen
moved. Though he had developed a peculiar habit of playing for the
Gentlemen at Lord’s, he had a charity that covered a multitude of
umpires, and when l.b.w. did not attempt to demonstrate to the pavilion
by the laws of Sir Isaac Newton that the ball had not pitched straight
by the vulgarest fraction of an inch. His mien had the wholly classic
calm of those who have their biographies in Wisden. His language in its
robustest passages was as fragile as Mrs. Meynell’s prose. If a small
boy danced behind the bowler’s arm, it was claimed for the Captain that
he actually employed “please” and “thank you.”[A] Even in the throes
of a run out his talk retained its purity to a remarkable degree. His
strongest expletive was a pained expression. His beverage seldom rose
beyond a milk and soda. Life with him was a very chaste affair.

The Secretary was of another kidney. He always got up a bit before
the lark, since his rule of life was to get a start of the rest of
nature. He was eminently fitted for great place. Had he been other
than Secretary to the Little Clumpton Cricket Club he must have been
Secretary for Foreign Affairs, and dictated carefully chosen insults to
the French and other dwellers in outer darkness. Nevertheless, he was
all things to all men. He could be as persuasive as tobacco, he could
unloose the wrath of Jove. If you came to him at the eleventh hour and
said: “Beastly sorry, Lawson, but can’t possibly play to-morrow,” you
could rely on his well of English being defiled. On the other hand,
if he came to you and said: “I say, old man, Jordan’s lost his jolly
aunt; Boulter’s split his blighted thumb, and I really can’t take no,
you know, shall want your batting awful bad, you know,” his accent was
a song. He was the only man who could subdue the best bowler when the
slips weren’t snapping ’em. He was the only man who dared address the
Captain on the field. He had the courage to explain to the fair sex,
“what those strange things in white coats with mufflers round their
waists are standing there for?” He could suggest to the intelligent
foreigner that _the criquette_ is a sport, not a religious exercise;
and he was such a fine tactician that he always fielded point.
Merryweather, known familiarly as “Jessop,” because of his audacity,
was the one person who ventured to tell the Secretary that he couldn’t
play to-morrow, “as I’m going golfing.” And even he, lion-hearted as
he was, presently gave up that pastime for less violent amusements.
“Billiards gone to grass,” the Secretary considered an insufficient
phrase, but the Secretary’s views on golf are not going to be printed.

Lawson’s was not the highest form of cricket. His bowling was a jest;
his batting was a comic interlude. Yet his Captain was wont to say,
“Give me Lawson at a pinch, and I’ll give you Grace and Ranjitsinhji.”
For his force of character was such that when the bowling was used up
he would go on with lobs and take a wicket; when a rot set in, before
going in to stop it, he would tell them to send him a cup of tea at
five; whilst he was such a master in the art of playing for a draw
that light-minded persons called him “Notts.” True, his style was not
the style of Gunn and Shrewsbury, nor were his methods conspicuously
pretty, but none the less he was the source of several letters to
the M.C.C. As an instance of his powers, last year but one, against
I. Zingari, he stayed two hours for seven, brought down the rain and
saved the match. There was not a breath of vanity about him, and in
appearance he looked quite a simple ordinary soul. But if it was an
absolute necessity that Little Clumpton should win the toss, the
Captain generally sent Lawson out to spin; and if the other side, in
the innocence of their hearts, thought they knew a trick that Little
Clumpton didn’t, the Secretary usually held it right to encourage them
in that opinion.

Now though there was not a man present who would have admitted for
a moment that he had the faintest fear of Hickory, there was no
overriding the hard fact that the Captain had twice withdrawn his
pipe from his mouth in the space of twenty minutes. The Secretary had
noted this grim portent as he noted everything, and sat tugging his
moustache with one hand, whilst with the other he worked out the Theory
of the Toss (invented by himself) to five places of decimals. Indeed,
such an air of gloom presently settled on us all that the Pessimist
declared that we had got already a bad attack of the Trenthams. Perhaps
we had. Never previously had we faced more than two members of this
redoubtable family at a time, but report said that to-morrow we must
suffer the full brotherhood of four. Their deeds that season had been
more terrible than ever. A. H., of Middlesex, had helped himself to
146 against Surrey at the Oval the previous week, and was going out
with Stoddart in the autumn. H. C. was reputed to be the best bowler
either ’Varsity had seen since Sammy Woods, an opinion poor Oxford had
subscribed to in July at Lord’s; Captain George, although he liked to
call himself a veteran, had an average of 72·3 for the Royal Artillery;
whilst T. S. M., the Harrow Captain, had enjoyed the Eton match very
much indeed, and rather thought he should enjoy the match with Little
Clumpton too. As if this was not enough, the General Nuisance presently
sauntered in, exactly an hour behind his time as usual. And to the
consternation of us all the General Nuisance wore his most expansive
simper.

“He’s only heard that the Trenthams are coming,” said the Worry. By
trying to reassure us he sought to reassure himself.

“Confound you! are you going to dislocate your face?” said the
Secretary, aiming a cushion and a string of unprintable expressions
at the General Nuisance. “What’s up now? Is Charlie crocked? Is Billy
drinking? Good Lord! I hope there’s nothing gone wrong with the
bowling!”

“Not yet,” said the General Nuisance sweetly; “but there will be, I’ll
give you _my_ word.”

“We shall have to try that muck o’ yours then,” said the Pessimist.

“Unfortunately I’m not playing to-morrow; I’m going fishing,” said the
General Nuisance affably.

“Eh? What?”

It was the voice of the Secretary from behind the Captain’s chair. It
was a psychological moment. Each man present had that nightmare of a
feeling that afflicts you in the long-field when A. H. Trentham lifts
one to you steeples high, curling some fifteen ways at once, which
all the time you are hopelessly misjudging and that you know you are
bound to drop. However, I had the presence of mind to distract the
General Nuisance with a drink, while the Captain laid a soothing hand
on the Secretary’s knee, and appealed to his moral nature. Brandy and
soda, one grieves to say, inflamed rather than appeased the personal
appearance of the General Nuisance. His simper became a grin.

“Pipe up,” said that heroical man, the Treasurer, preparing for the
worst; “out with it.”

“You will be very brave?” said the General Nuisance.

“Comfort, you blackguard,” said the Secretary, “Why do you grin? Speak
or die!”

When the General Nuisance grinned, homicidal tendencies soiled minds of
the most virgin whiteness.

The Captain took his pipe out and tapped it on his boot. It was a
command that even the revolutionary spirit of the General Nuisance
dared not disregard. It had the authority of an Act of Parliament.

“Well, brethren,” said the General Nuisance, “they are bringing
Carteret and Elphinstone, that’s all.”

“And the Trenthams, too?” said I.

“And the Trenthams, too,” said he.

“It’s a good job we’re a good team,” said the Humourist.

It is true that the Secretary sat behind the Captain’s chair, but in
the course of three minutes he contrived to emit such a quantity of
language of a free and painful character, that to relieve the tension
the Humourist kindly propounded this conundrum. Why is Bobby Abel
batting like Lawson’s small talk? Because to look at ’em you’d wonder
how they could. This, I regret to say, is quite in the Humourist’s
early manner, ere art had chastened nature. It lacks the polished
pathos of those slow-drawn agonies at which the world grew pale. But
as the Humourist strutted in his title because he took himself quite
seriously, do not let us forget that this offspring of his wit was born
in an hour of mental stress.



CHAPTER II

Coming Events


AT six next morning my man found me in pyjamas, flourishing a bat up
and down a chalk line on the bedroom carpet.

“Are you quite sure it’s perfectly straight, William?”

“Quite straight, sir; but mind the wardrobe door, sir!”

“I think I’ll try that blind hit of Gunn’s between point and cover.”

“All right, sir; if you’ll just wait while I move the water-jug. Your
left leg a little more across--just a little; and how’s the late cut
this morning, sir?”

“Never healthier in its life. Here you are. Look out!”

Crash! Plop! The glass in the wardrobe door had met the fate of its
predecessors. The aggravating thing about the wardrobe door is that if
you have it of glass you must inevitably break it; yet should you have
a plain panel you can’t see what angle your bat’s at and where your
feet are.

“I was hoping all the time that you’d smash it, sir,” said William in a
confidential tone. “It’s a strange thing, sir, but every time you smash
the wardrobe door you never get less than 50. If you remember, when you
got that 82 last year against the Free Foresters you smashed it the
morning of the match. Then that 61 against M.C.C. (O’Halloran and Roche
an’ all), same thing occurred, if you recollect. And it’s my belief
that you’ve smashed it worse this morning, sir, than you’ve ever done
before. It _might_ be the century to-day, sir.”

“I wonder if the water-jug or washhand-stand would help it,” said I
reflectively; “because, William, if you really think they would----”

“Somehow,” said William hastily, “I haven’t quite the same faith in
that there water-jug. I remember once you cracked it right across the
spout and got ‘run out 3’ on that particular mornin’. Captain Cooper
called you, and then sent you back, if you remember, sir, when you was
halfway down the pitch.”

“I remember,” I groaned. “Those are the tragedies of which our little
life is made!”

“And the washhand-stand ain’t no good at all, sir. Why, when you
knocked the leg off it in giving Mold the wood, you bagged a brace at
Pigeon Hill that day on what they called a wicket, but what was really
a hornamental lake.”

“Spare me the horrible details, William,” I said. A cold sensation was
creeping down my spine.

Having tubbed and shaved I felt so fit as I walked down to have a
look at the ground before breakfast that I had to restrain myself
from jumping five-barred gates. It was a perfect morning, flushed
with summer. The birds on the boughs were welcoming the young sun;
the mists were running before him; the dew on the trees was dancing
to him; whilst the drenched meadows and the cool haze receding to the
hills promised ninety in the shade to follow. Evidently Nature, like a
downright good sportsman, was going to let us have a real cricketers’
day for a true cricketing occasion. Such fragrance made the blood leap.
Every muscle seemed electric. To snuff the chill airs was to feel as
fit and full of devil as a racehorse. By Jove, I felt like getting
’em! There were clean off-drives in the eager brooks, clipping cuts
for four in the sparkling grass, sweet leg glances in the singing
hedgerows, inimitable hooks and behind-the-wicket strokes in the
cheerful field noises and the bird-thrilled branches; and when the sun
burst out more fully in premonition of what was to be his magnificent
display at Little Clumpton _versus_ Hickory later in the day, I said
to an unresponsive cow, “How do you like that, H. C.?” for I had just
lifted the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods, clean
out of the ground for six. And having begun to this tune, of course I
went on getting ’em. I continued cutting, driving, and leg hitting at
such a pace, that by the time I had made the half-mile to the ground
that morning, a mere five minutes’ walk, I was rapidly approaching my
century. They may talk of Jessop, but I think this gives a long start
to any performances of his, although it is possible that he may have
had to meet bowling rather more “upon the spot.” I was in great form
though.

I found the ground-man standing beside the wicket, looking at it
lovingly. He had his head on one side, as he gazed with an air as of
Michael Angelo surveying his masterpiece.

“Mornin’ to you, sir!”

“Mornin’ Wiggles. How’s the wicket?”

“This ain’t no wicket, sir. It’s a bloomin’ billiard-table wot Dawson’s
a’ inviting of Roberts to come and play on. And Lord, sir, have you
seed the side that Hickory’s a-bringing--a bloomin’ county team.
There’s them there Trenthams, all the boiling of ’em, and Carteret
and Elphinstone of Kent. They do say as how Francis Ford and Fry’s
a-coming, too, as Hickory’s a bit weak in batting like, seeing as how
Billy Thumbs the cobbler’s short o’ practice. Well, sir, I on’y hopes
they comes, and Ranjy with ’em, because, if you come to think on it,
Hickory ain’t got no side at all. And such a piece of concrete wot’s
awaiting ’em! ’Tween you and me, sir, I think if I was a bowler I
should take to batting for to-day.”

“We had better win the toss then,” I said gloomily.

“That’s a very good idea, sir, for I’m thinking whoever gets in on
this, somebody’ll be so tired afore six-thirty.”

Looking at that wicket and brooding on the awful array of batsmen
Hickory was bringing, and what the result must be if they only got in
first, I was tempted of the devil. The turf was soft with dew. I had
merely to press my heel once into that billiard-table to nip some of
their prospective centuries in the bud. And who shall say whether human
frailty had prevailed against the wiles of evil had it not remembered
that Hickory were not _obliged_ to go in first.

I went home to breakfast trying to restrain my excess of “fitness.” For
cricket is cussedness incarnate. You rise in the morning like a giant
refreshed: your blood is jumping, the ball looks as big as a balloon,
and you have a go at one you ought to let alone, and spoon it up to
cover. Excess of “fitness” gets more wickets than Lohmann ever took.

I was in the middle of the _Sportsman_ and my fourth egg when William
appeared with a countenance of tragedy.

“I can’t find it, sir; it’s clean gone!” he said.

“Not the bat with the wrapping at the bottom?” I gasped, turning pale.

“No, sir; worse than that,” he said.

“Speak!” I cried; “what is it?”

“Your cap,” he said. “The one you made the 82, the 61, and 67 not out
in.”

“What, the Authentics! It must be found, or I don’t go in to-day.
Couldn’t get a run without that cap.”

The sweat stood on my brow.

“It’s my belief, sir,” said William darkly, “that this here’s a bit O’
Hickory. They knows how, like W. G., its always one particular cap you
gets your runs in, and they’ve had it took according.”

This was very nice of William. His tact was charming. But the idea of
my facing Hickory without my lucky cap was as monstrous as the captain
going out to toss without his George II. shilling.

“William,” I said, “if you have to take the carpets up and have the
chimneys swept, that cap must be found.”

William returned disconsolately to his search, whilst I fell into a
train of dismal speculation. Falling to the _Sportsman_ in despair my
eye fell on a few items of a cheerful and peculiar interest:--

  “KENT _v._ NOTTS.--Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, c Jones, b Attewell,
  172; J. P. Carteret, b Dixon, 103.

  “This brilliant pair of amateurs completely collared the Notts attack
  at Canterbury yesterday, and in the course of two hours and a quarter
  helped themselves to 254 for the second wicket.


  “MIDDLESEX _v._ YORKSHIRE.--A. H. Trentham, run out, 97.

  “Yesterday, at Lord’s, that delightful batsman, A. H. Trentham,
  reduced the resourceful Yorkshire bowling to something that bore a
  family resemblance to common piffle. To the great disappointment of
  the enthusiastic company[B] he had the misfortune to be beautifully
  thrown out by F. S. Jackson when within three of the coveted three
  figures. Among his strokes were seventeen fours, including a
  couple of remarkable drives off Rhodes into the pavilion seats.
  Had he topped the century yesterday it would have been his fifth
  this season in county cricket. As it is, he is still second in the
  first-class averages; and we certainly think that the Old Country
  is to be congratulated on having A. H. Trentham to represent her in
  the forthcoming test games in Australia. His absolute confidence and
  his fine forcing method, it is not premature to say, will be seen to
  singular advantage on the fast and true colonial grounds.”

Reader (_loquitur_): “Damn his fine forcing method! I wonder why
Wiggles hadn’t the sense to water that wicket. Anyway, I wish Jacker
had let him have his fling. They’re always worse when they’ve been run
out.”

  “HOUSEHOLD BRIGADE _v._ ROYAL ARTILLERY.--Captain Trentham, c
  Wolseley, b Kitchener, 150.

  “Playing for C.U.L.V.C. _v._ N. F. Druce’s XI. yesterday, H. C.
  Trentham, the crack Cambridge bowler, took nine wickets for eight
  runs. His performance included the ‘hat trick.’ The ball with
  which he bowled Prince Ranjitsinhji knocked one bail a distance of
  fifty-nine yards five and half inches. We believe we are correct in
  saying that this is a world’s record, providing that ‘up country in
  Australia,’ that home of the cricket miracle, is unable to furnish
  anything to beat it.


  “HARROW WANDERERS _v._ GENTLEMEN OF CHESHIRE.--T. S. M. Trentham, not
  out, 205.”

  “We have it from a reliable source,” says the _Athletic News_, “that
  the authorities at Old Trafford are making strenuous efforts to
  induce Mr. T. S. M. Trentham, this year’s captain at Harrow, and
  the youngest member of the famous brotherhood whose name he bears,
  to qualify for Lancashire. As doubtless our readers are aware, the
  authorities at Old Trafford have always been justly celebrated for
  their generous appreciation and encouragement of the cricketing
  talent of _other_ counties, and in the case of young Mr. Trentham
  there is something peculiarly appropriate in the benevolence of their
  present attitude, as it is rumoured that Mr. Trentham once had an
  aunt who lived near Bootle.”

I could read no more. The _Sportsman_ dropped from my unheeding
hands, and I had just begun to whistle the opening bars of the “Dead
March,” when two brown boots and the lower parts of a pair of grey
flannel trousers wriggled from the lawn through the open window. They
were surmounted two seconds later by a straw hat, a straw-coloured
moustache, and an aquiline nose, which I identified as belonging to the
General Nuisance. He had an exquisitely neat brown paper parcel under
his arm, and a smile of fifty candle-power illuminating his classic
features. I was horrified to see it.

“You’re early this morning,” I said resignedly. “It wants a quarter to
eight yet. Have some breakfast?”

“Tha-anks,” he drawled, “but I’ve had my milk. I’ve called round to
bring you yours.”

As he spoke he removed the string from the parcel in the most leisurely
manner and disclosed a pile of carefully folded newspapers with names
pencilled on the corners. Having discovered mine, he handed it to me
with that air of benevolent condescension that head masters wear on
speech day.

“How nice of you!” I said. However, I’m afraid this irony was so
delicate that he didn’t feel it.

“My dear fellow, not at all,” he said. “There’s one for everybody. I’m
delivering ’em to the whole team, don’t you know.”

Needless to say, he had presented me with an immaculate copy of the
_Sportsman_. I picked up my own discarded sheet from under the table.

“Awf’ly obliged, old chap, but I’ve got one, thank you,” I said,
pleasantly.

“That’s lucky,” said he, “you can give one to your friends. Rather
pretty reading, isn’t it? Awf’ly decent set, Trenthams, Elphinstone,
etcetera.”

“Git!” I said, gazing round for a boot-jack or a poker, or something
equally likely to debase his physical beauty.

“Ta-ta then, see you later!”

To my infinite joy he appeared to be taking the hint. But he had only
just conducted his infernal smile to the right side of the window, when
he jerked it back again, and said:--

“Oh, I forgot! I say, Dimsdale, I ought to tell you this. I rather
think Billy _was_ drunk last night. His eyes are as red as a ferret’s
this morning, and his housekeeper told me in confidence that when she
got up this morning and went to call him she found master’s umbrella in
bed and master sleeping in the umbrella-stand.”

“No, don’t say that,” I gasped, with a sinking at the heart. Alas! we’d
only got two bowlers, and Billy was the one on whom we depended most.

“Fact!” said the General Nuisance cheerfully; “wouldn’t trouble you
with it if I thought it wasn’t true. Lawson drove up with the Doctor
as I came away. I implored our gentle secretary not to mourn, since a
few Seidlitzs and a stomach-pump can do a lot in a very little time.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but it is generally slow bowlers
who resort to intemperance, because as they’ve only got to lose their
perfect length to embitter the lives of others, their possibilities
become quite unbearable on a big occasion. At the M.C.C. match Lawson
sat beside him at lunch both days counting his liqueurs. Poor old
Lawson! I felt it my duty to assure him just now that it really took
very little to make Billy lose his length. I also took the liberty of
reminding him of what happened when he lost it once before, against
Emeriti,--

  5 overs.      0 maidens.      51 runs.      0 wickets.

and Emeriti had got quite an ordinary side.”

Just as the muffineer arrived at the head of the General Nuisance,
the General Nuisance was mean enough to duck. This act enabled the
muffineer to crash through the plate-glass window.

“Timed that to a ‘T,’” said he. “Can see absolutely anything this
morning. Certain to book fifty if I once get in, which I take to be a
strong enough reason why an inscrutable Providence will cause us to
lose the toss and keep me in the field all day.”

“Hope you will be there,” said I savagely, “and I’d like to see you
taking long-field on both ends. And I hope you’ll drop a catch in front
of the ladies’ tent. And I hope when you come racing round the corner
to make that magnificent one-hand dive to save the four, the bally
thing’ll jump and hit you in the teeth. And if you do go in to bat I
hope you’ll be bowled neck and heels first ball.”

Ignoring this peroration he again appeared to be at the point of
withdrawing his hateful presence. But too well did I know the General
Nuisance to anticipate such a consummation. He merely seated himself
on the sill in an attitude that would enable him to cope with sudden
emergencies, and then said:--

“Oh, by the way, the youngest Gunter girl; you know, the little one
with the green eyes and the freckles--just got engaged they say.”

“Who to?” I said fiercely. The General Nuisance certainly plumbed the
depths of human fiendishness, but in conversation he had a command of
topics that were irresistible.

“Who to?” I said.

“One of the Trenthams,” he smiled. “Ta-ta! See you ten-thirty.”

He was gone at last, and I had barely time to praise Heaven’s clemency
that this was even so, when William entered with the face of an
undertaker out of work.

“Clean gone, sir,” he said. “Abso-blooming-lutely! Looked high and low,
and Mrs. Jennings ain’t no notion.”

“Looked in the lining of the bag?”

“Everywhere,” said the miserable William.

“Well,” said I, “unless it’s found I don’t get a run to-day.”

“I can tell you, sir,” said William, “that I’d rather lose my
perquisites than that this should have ’appened at Little Clumpton _v._
Hickory. But there’s the Winchester, and the Magdalen, and the M.C.C.
Couldn’t you get some in one of them, sir?”

“Daren’t risk it,” I said, “not at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Yet,
let me see, hasn’t Mr. Thornhill one of the Authentics?”

“Why, Lor’ bless me, that he ’ave, sir!”

“Well, get your bike at once, give my compliments and kind regards to
Mr. Thornhill and tell him I’ve lost my Authentics and will he lend
me his. Explain that it’s Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and that I
can only get runs in the Authentics. It’s now eight-twenty, and it’s
eighteen miles to Mr. Thornhill’s place. Can you bring it to me by
eleven?”

“Well, sir, if I don’t, you’ll know I’ve burst a tyre.”

Within five minutes William was riding to Thornhill’s as if his life
depended on it, with the stable-boy to pace him.



CHAPTER III

LITTLE CLUMPTON _v._ HICKORY


I CAME down to the ground at a little after ten. The match was to
begin at eleven, sharp. The only sights of interest on my arrival were
the ground-man marking out the crease, and the Worry at the nets in a
brand-new outfit. The “pro” and three small boys were striving to knock
a shilling off his middle.

“You’re touching ’em pretty this morning, Daunton,” said I, out of pure
excellence of heart. I wished him to keep up his pecker.

“Think so?” he said nervously. “I’ve had an awful bad night, and I
believe there’s something the matter with my wrist. I wish I wasn’t
playing.”

The Worry’s life was a burden to him on match days. When he went in to
bat he issued from the pavilion with a wild eye and a haggard mien,
and a rooted idea that he was bound to be bowled first ball. This he
invariably played forward to, as the strain on his nervous system was
so severe that it was a physical impossibility for him to wait and
receive it in his crease. He counted every run he got, and, if there
was the faintest doubt about a snick, he would say, “I hope you noticed
that I touched that, umpire.”

The crowd was already beginning to assemble. Vehicles and pedestrians
were flocking in from twenty miles around. Hickory was a neighbouring
village, only seven miles distant, but the rivalry was so keen that
the local public-houses did no trade while the great match was in
progress. It always had been so, and always would be. Even in the early
forties Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory had become historical. Alfred
Mynn and Fuller Pilch had actually graced the annual encounter in the
Park. There was only one match a season; two would have been more than
human endurance could have borne; and the Park, which generations of
its noble owners had been very proud to lend for this nation-shaking
function, was the only cricket-ground in the vicinity that could hope
to accommodate the rival partisans. It might have been that once on a
time the ’Varsity match had been played on other turf than Lord’s; but
the Park was the only spot in England that had ever had the privilege
of witnessing Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory on its velvet sward. Let
kings depart and empires perish, but this always had been so and always
would be!

To appear at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory was not the lot of common
men. Only the elect could hope to do so. To take wickets or make a
score at this encounter was to become a classic in one’s lifetime.
There were hoary veterans round about, whom the uninitiated might
take to be mouldering mediocrities, but no--“see t’ owd gaffer theer?
well, ’e wor a ’56 man; and t’ littlin theer across the rowad ’e
wor ’59”--which being interpreted means that 1856 and 1859 were the
dates of their distinction. Therefore do not let the young think, as
unhappily they do just now, that they must write a book to become
immortal. Why will not a few thousands of these seekers after fame,
these budding novelists and early poets, take to cricket? For is it
not more honourable, and certainly more glorious, to make a century at
Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and make half a shire shout your praise,
than to translate Omar Kháyyám and become a nuisance to posterity?

Presently I beheld a sight that nearly brought the tears into my eyes.
The Optimist and the Pessimist were coming arm-in-arm across the grass.
The lion lay down with the lamb at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. The
Secretary walked alone with looks and words for none. He was so
positively dangerous that the General Nuisance forbore to ask him what
bowling we had got.

Having changed, I was sallying forth from the pavilion in the
possession of bat and ball for the purpose of “having a knock” when a
sudden palpitation made the crowd vibrate.

“’Ere’s Hickory! Good owd Hickory!”

A solid English-throated cheer announced that the enemy were in sight.
A thrill ran through me as I gazed in the direction of their coming,
for certainly the appearance of such a celebrated side was something
to be seen. It was. A four-in-hand came bumping along the stretch
of uneven meadow at a clipping pace. And to my indignant horror and
bewilderment I saw that the reins were commanded by a person that wore
nice white cuffs and a brown holland blouse. Conceive the cream of
English cricket with their legs tucked up on the top of that rocking,
creaking, jumping, jolting coach at the mercy of a person in a brown
holland blouse! It was a thing that required to be very clearly seen
before it could be accepted. In agony of mind I rubbed my eyes and
looked more intently at the furiously on-coming vehicle. Never a doubt
its pace was reckless, criminally reckless, considering the priceless
freight it bore.

“What do you think of that?” I cried, turning in my distress to the
man beside me. He happened to be the Ancient, so-called, because of
his thoughtful air and his supernatural wisdom. “Just look at the
confounded thing, I’m certain that girl’ll have it over. Gad! did you
see her dodge that ditch by about three inches? Those men must be
perfect fools! Why doesn’t that idiot beside her lend a hand? But some
of these women are steep enough for anything. That girl ought to be
talked to.”

“Well, suppose you do the talking,” said the Ancient, with his most
reflective air. Then, as the drag lurched into our midst, wheels and
harness grunting, the glossy animals in a lather; and they were drawn
up with a sure hand in front of the pavilion while a cheering and
gaping throng pressed about the wheels to impede the great men in their
descent, the Ancient pensively continued, “Tell you what, my boy, I
should rather like the chance of talking to that young person.”

To do her justice, she was certainly a source of comfort to the eye.
When she yielded the reins and stood up on the footboard she had that
air of simple resolution that is the source of England’s pride.

She was so tall and trim and strong, there was such a decision in her
curves that her brown holland with white cuffs and collar, her Zingari
tie, and hat-band of the same red and yellow brilliance round a straw,
with heavy coils of hair of a proper country fawn-colour beneath, lent
her that look of candid capability that nature generally reserves for
cricketers of the highest order. I never gave the cracks from Hickory
a second thought. Everything about her was so clean, so cool, so
absolute, that before she had left the box I had quite convinced myself
that whoever she might be she was a young person whose habit was to do
things.

“Catch!” she cried, and threw down the Hickory score-book.

She then superintended the unlading of the coach roof of its pile of
brown and battered cricket bags, whilst the crowd pressed nearer to
the wheels and evinced the liveliest concern as to “which is A. H.?
And who’s the tall chap? And who’s the Parson? And don’t he look a
funny little cuss? And who’s the very tall chap? ’Im wi’ the big ’ead?
H. C. o’ course. And who’s the lamp-post? And that theer fleshy bloke
who’d got three boys to carry his bag, a fourth to carry his hat, and
a fifth his newspaper, must be Carteret, because it said in the _Daily
Chronicle_ that he was the fattest short-slip in England and took life
easily.” Of such are fame’s penalties!

The young person in brown holland having made it her business to see
that the bags were bundled down with the necessary degree of violence,
said: “I think you men had better go and change _immediately_. I’ll
have a look at the wicket.”

She swung down from the step before any of the men below could lend a
hand, and, while the whole eleven moved towards the pavilion with their
luggage, the young person in brown holland made her way through the
throng with the confidence of a duchess at a charity bazaar, and strode
across the grass without the least suspicion of the Meredithian “swim.”
And it was quite a coincidence that the Ancient and myself should
choose a spot as near the wicket as the unwritten laws allowed, for the
purpose of having a little practice.

The ground-man was lingering over the last touches to his masterpiece
when the young person in brown holland actually set foot on the sacred
earth that the general public is not even permitted to approach. The
face of the ground-man was well worth looking at. When the feelings
of a great artist are outraged it is a very painful sight. Alas, poor
Wiggles! the agony of his countenance no pen could depict. He lifted up
his head and emitted a slow-drawn growl. This had no effect whatever.
Indeed, an instant later, this most audacious individual had the
incredible effrontery to bring down a pretty solid brown boot, by no
means of the “little mice” type either, twice upon the pitch itself. It
was more than a merely human ground-man could endure.

“Begging pardon, miss,” said he, “but are you aware, miss, that this
here is a--a _wicket_?”

“Well, my dear man,” said the person thus addressed, “do you suppose I
thought it was a bunker?”

The Ancient and I agreed that this was an achievement. For a member
of the general public to retort effectually on a real live ground-man
was as great a feat as to look at the Chinese Emperor. The face of
Wiggles was a study. Meanwhile, the lady having sufficiently tried the
adamantine surface with her boot, bent down and pressed on it with her
thumb. A feather would have slain the miserable Wiggles at that moment.
Was it possible that any human creature, let alone the sex, could
presume to test, and criticise, and doubt his masterpiece in this way!
But worse was coming. Apparently the young person in brown holland was
determined to satisfy herself in regard to every detail.

“Ground-man,” she said, “has this turf any tendency to crumble?”

“No, it ain’t,” said the ground-man savagely.

Having laid her doubts in this direction, she proceeded to view the
wicket lengthwise. Setting her alert tanned face in a precise line with
the stumps, she said:--

“Ground-man, are you sure that these sticks are _quite_ plumb!”

“If they ain’t it’s the fust time i’ thirty yeer.”

“But surely the leg peg your end wants pulling out a bit. That’ll do.
It’s all right now.”

When the utterly demoralised Wiggles discovered that he had
unconsciously obeyed the behests of the young person in brown holland,
I never saw a man who more regretted his own inability to kick himself.

“Well, ground-man,” she said slowly and reflectively, “I think this
wicket is good enough for a Test Match. Here’s a shilling for you.”

The hesitation of Wiggles was really painful. A shilling is a shilling
always, but how could a self-respecting ground-man accept one in these
humiliating circumstances? His views on political economy, however,
reconciled his outraged feelings to this added insult. He took the
shilling with a defiant air.

“And, ground-man,” she said, “mind that I tip you for every individual
century that is got for Hickory to-day.”

“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Wiggles, with a groan. He was Little
Clumpton to the marrow. The poor wretch cast a despairing glance at
the Ancient and myself, while we practised in the most assiduous manner.

Suddenly a peal of laughter came from the young person in brown
holland. It seemed that the sight-board in front of a dark fringe of
trees behind the bowler’s arm had attracted her polite attention.

“Charlie’s arm’ll be over that,” she cried delightedly. “We’ll put him
on that end.”

“Ancient,” said I, “do you hear what that--that girl’s saying? Why
doesn’t that idiot Wiggles order her off the field? If she stops there
much longer we’re a beaten team.”

Just then she turned her attention to us engaged in practice. Now the
sight of this--this person who was so busily occupied in laying traps
and pitfalls for Little Clumpton’s overthrow enraged me to that degree
that I determined to get rid of her by uncompromising methods. She
stood in the exact line of my crack to cover.

“Ancient,” I said, “just chuck up a nice half-volley on the off, and
I’ll make this place a bit too hot for that young person in brown
holland.”

The Ancient lost no time in becoming accessory before the fact, and,
throwing my leg across, I put in every ounce I’d got.

“Oh, goo--od stroke! goo--od stroke!” cried our intended victim in a
very joyful voice. And we had the privilege of witnessing the young
person we were conspiring to remove calmly place her feet and hands
together, as per Steel and Lyttelton, and field and return that red-hot
drive in the neatest, cleanest, county style.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said I.

“If she’s fielding cover for them,” said the Ancient grimly,
“somebody’ll be run out. We’d better advise Lennox and Jack Comfort not
to try to steal ’em. I shan’t go for short ’uns, I can tell you.”

The Ancient owed his eminence to the fact that no detail was too mean
for his capacious mind. Besides, he was as strenuous, serious, and
self-centred as a novelist with a circulation of a hundred thousand
copies.

Much to the relief of Wiggles and ourselves, the sight of a perfect
broad-shouldered giant of a fellow issuing from the pavilion at this
moment, clad in flannels, bat in hand, lured the young person in brown
holland from her very inconvenient and highly dangerous station at the
wicket.

“Hi, Archie, got a ball?” she cried at the pitch of a splendid pair of
lungs.

“Hullo, Grace!” replied the giant in a voice by no means the inferior
of her own. “You’re just the very chap. I want half a dozen down.
Let’s cut across there to the nets. Here you are. Look out!”

Thereon the giant hurled a ball a terrific height into the eye of the
sun. It seemed so perilously like descending on our heads that poor
Wiggles put up his hands and began to run for his life. Not so the
young person in brown holland. She stepped two or three yards backward,
moved a little to one side, shaded her eyes a moment from the glare to
sight the catch, and next instant had the leather tucked beautifully
under her chin in a manner worthy of a G. J. Mordaunt.

“Wiggles,” said I, “do you happen to know who that lady is?”

“Wish I did, sir,” said Wiggles feebly. “She’s a terror, ain’t she?
But I hope she don’t come here too often. I reckon she’s a Trentham,
she is. That wor A. H. what just come out. Lord, and just look at that
theer gal a bowlin’ at ’un. She sets ’un back on his sticks an’ all.”

We turned our attention to the nets, and beheld her bowling slow
hanging length balls to A. H. Trentham, almost a facsimile of Alfred
Shaw.

“I tell you, Dimsdale,” said the Ancient, “if this is what lovely
woman’s coming to, it’s high time some of us crocks took to golf. I
wonder if Miss Grace plays for M.C.C. I notice she’s got their colours
on. I’ve always contended that they never look so well as when worn by
W. G., but I’m hanged if this new Grace don’t give the Old Man points.”



CHAPTER IV

An Impossible Incident


THE great men were now coming out in twos and threes to have a knock.

“Hullo!” said I, “that’s Elphinstone. Remember him at ‘the House.’
There’s not much of him, but what there is is all-sufficing. And just
look at those great big bounding Trenthams. Anyone of ’em could put the
little parson in his pocket. And I say, Ancient, do you notice that
the young one, about the build of Townsend--I mean the one clapping
his hands for the ball--do you notice that he’s an enlarged copy of
the young person in brown holland? Same hair, and eyes, and nose,
and everything; same cheerful enterprising look. It’s a million to a
hay-seed she’s a Trentham, too.”

But the Optimist approached, an encyclopædia of the scientific and the
useful.

“Brightside,” said the Ancient, “we want to know who that girl is who’s
sticking up A. H. like Alfred Shaw.”

“Better go and ask Lawson,” said the Optimist. “I’ve just suggested
that he puts a placard up in the refreshment tent to the effect that
the singularly interesting being in brown holland is Miss Laura Mary
Trentham, yet another member of the world-famous cricket family of that
name. Lawson’s being simply besieged with questions.”

“But A. H. called her Grace just now?”

“Her baptismal name is Laura Mary, but they call her Grace because she
keeps five portraits of that hero on her bedroom mantelpiece. Rumour
also says that she keeps strands of his beard stowed away in secret
drawers. This she indignantly denies, however, as she swears that if
she’d got them she’d wear them in a brooch.”

“H’m! And what an extraordinary resemblance there is between her and T.
S. M.”

“They’re twins. She’s about an hour the older of the two, and I
believe she bullies him outrageously. And I rather think she gives her
honourable and reverend papa, and the remainder of the family, a pretty
lively time. Why, here’s the old gentleman himself.”

The Captain and the Humourist were accompanying a fine old clergyman in
an inspection of the wicket. He was gigantically built. His perfectly
white hair lent him a venerable expression that was hardly borne out
by his massive shoulders and athletic figure, for they had not the
faintest suspicion of age.

“By Jove!” said the Optimist in enthusiastic tones, “that old boy’s
been a player in his day. In the fifties he practically beat the
Players single-handed more than once. In fact, the old buffers say at
Lord’s that for three years he was the best amateur bowler that there’s
ever been. Of course wickets have altered since his time, but up at
Lord’s they swear that Spofforth at his best was never in it with ‘the
Reverent.’”

“’Don’t wonder then,” said I, “that this Clerk in Holy Orders has got
such a devil of a family. Look out, mind your heads!”

Captain George, of the Artillery, had chosen that moment to open his
shoulders to the youthful T. S. M. with the result that a lovely
skimming drive dropped twenty yards in front of the pavilion and
bounced with a rattle on to the corrugated iron roof. We had barely
time to observe this when a buzz of amazement went round the crowded
ring. It seemed that at last A. H., of Middlesex, had “had a go” at one
of the insidious deliveries of Miss Grace, his sister, with the result
that he lifted her from the far net clean over the ladies’ tent.

“Yes,” said the Ancient, “they appear to be a thoroughly amiable,
courteous, carefully brought-up, gentle-mannered family. There they
go. It’s H. C.’s turn now. He’s very nearly killed a little boy. They
seem to bowl like hell, and hit like kicking horses!”

This brought misfortune to us in hard reality. The General Nuisance
strolled up with his permanent simper.

“Oldknow,” said he, “unwillingly I heard the profane utterance of your
pagan mind. It is grievous for a man of your parts and understanding to
give way to language of that character. But you will be glad to hear
that our esteemed Secretary, Lawson, is suffering at this moment from
an attack of incipient paralysis. It appears that that blackguard of a
Billy is confined to bed.”

“The brute!”

“The beast!”

“The pig!”

“What I we are actually left to face a team like this with one bowler?”
said I, the first to recover from the shock.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said the General Nuisance, with his
geniality rising almost to the point of hysteria. “We aren’t even left
with one. As a matter of fact we haven’t a bowler of any sort. It’s
true that we’ve any amount of the usual small change. I can bowl three
long hops and two full tosses in an over, so can you; so can all of
us; and that, dear friends, is what we’ve got to do.”

“But you are forgetting Charlie,” said the Optimist of the lion heart.

“Oh dear, no,” said the General Nuisance, “’wouldn’t forget him for the
world. If you would only wait and let me break the news with my usual
delicacy. Charlie’s just wired to say that his mother-in-law has been
taken seriously ill, and that he and Mrs. Charlie have been obliged to
go to town.”

Straightway the Ancient wheeled about, and fled--fled with a curse into
the recesses of the pavilion, far from the madding crowd, the pitiless
sun, the perfect wicket, and those dreadful men from Hickory loosening
their arms.

“Tha-ank you! Tha-ank you!” called the bowler, as a pretty little leg
hit from J. P. Carteret struck the inoffensive Optimist between the
shoulder-blades.

“Comfort,” said I, addressing myself to the General Nuisance, “if there
had been the least sense of propriety in that rotten played-out thing
called Providence, that ball had hit you on the head.”

“Dear friends,” said the General Nuisance, “don’t you think that
Charlie’s mother-in-law well maintains the traditions of her tribe?”

“The abandoned old woman!” cried I.

“Never mind, I think it’s our turn to win the toss,” said the Optimist,
unconquered still.

They ought to grant the Victoria Cross to men of this heroic mould,
who remain wholly invincible to circumstance. Some credit was due to
me as well, for I had the presence of mind to behave as custom, nay,
etiquette, demands, when things are going wrong. I broke out into loud
and prolonged abuse of the harmless necessary Secretary.

“Lawson is an utter and consummate ass!” said I. “A man with the
intelligence of an owl would surely know that his bowlers were bound to
let him down at the eleventh hour. They always do. They always consult
their own book before they think about their side. I shall suggest
at the next meeting of committee that Lawson be asked to resign.
Nature never designed a fool to be a secretary; besides, one looks
for foresight in a secretary. Here he’s actually not made the least
provision for a case of this sort, which a man with the penetration
of the common hedgehog would have anticipated at the beginning of
the season. And, Comfort, what’s he doing now? Surely he knows that
Middlesex aren’t playing, and of course he’s had the sense to wire for
Hearne and Albert Trott.”

“No, I believe not,” drawled the General Nuisance; “but we must give
credit, my dear Dimsdale, where credit’s due, for even that submerged
Secretary of ours has, impossible as it may appear, gone one better
than even your intelligence suggests. He’s just cabled to Australia for
Jones and Trumble. They’re not so well known to the Hickory cracks as
Jack Hearne and Trott; besides, they’ve been resting all the winter,
don’t you know.”

Here the pavilion bell pealed lustily as a signal for the ground to
clear immediately, it being now within a few minutes of eleven o’clock.
It was a real relief that our conversation with the General Nuisance
had at length been interrupted, since I for one could feel a quantity
of awful consequences fairly itching in my finger-tips. If nature
had not a habit of going out of its way to encourage original sin in
all its phases, the General Nuisance must have died with a jerk at a
comparatively early period of his development.

The summons was promptly obeyed. The players came trooping in from the
remote corners of the playing-piece; and it was observed that while
Hickory walked confident, lusty, and obtrusively cheerful, Little
Clumpton were in that state of nerves when strong men pluck at their
moustaches and their ties. When we entered the dressing-room we found
the Captain and the Secretary conferring together in tragic whispers.
This in itself was sufficient to strike a chill into the boldest heart;
and we stood apart out of pure respect and appreciation for the solemn
sight. Presently the Captain rose, and a shudder went through us all,
for we saw by his intense expression that he was going out to toss. And
we remembered that the Captain was the unluckiest man in England with
the spin; that he had won the toss against Hickory last year; that our
so-called bowling was absolutely unworthy of the name; that the wicket
was perfection; and that the finest batting side that had ever appeared
for Hickory was drinking stone-ginger beer and cracking rude jokes in
their dressing-room across the way.

Alas, no jokes and ginger beer for Little Clumpton! Even the Humourist
forbore to make a pun; the Optimist was silent as the tomb; and two
large-hearted persons sat on the face of the General Nuisance, partly
in the public interest, and partly that manslaughter might be averted
for a time. When the Captain, pale but stern, went forth to toss,
the Worry tottered from his seat and softly closed the door. We had
no desire for publicity. As for the preliminaries and suspense of
the sacred rite itself, in that direction madness lay. The Pessimist
alone dared to interrupt the holy peace that pervaded this dull and
miserable dressing-room; but he was a man without any of life’s little
delicacies, and utterly devoid of the higher instincts and the finer
feelings.

“I say, you men,” said he, “we might be a set of Hooligans riding to
the assizes in Black Maria to make the acquaintance of Mr. Justice Day.
Why doesn’t somebody smile? Suppose you try, Brightside, as you’re
always such a jolly cheerful sort o’ Johnny.”

“Shut up,” said the Secretary, “if you desire to avoid what’s happened
to that blasted Comfort!”

This pointed reference appeared to touch the General Nuisance in
his _amour propre_, for after a violent struggle he was able to
sufficiently disengage his mouth from the vertebral columns of his
guardians to painfully suggest:--

“S’pose I give--compliments--club--to--Grace Trentham and ask her to
come and--bowl a bit--for Lil Clumpton. She can--give such--a long
start--to--the refuse we’ve----”

Here, however, his custodians, by half garrotting him, and the
judicious application of Merryweather’s “barn door,” were able to get
their refractory charge in hand again.

And now the door opened softly, and the Captain stalked in, saying
nothing. The fell deed was accomplished. Yet who was going in, not
one of us knew, and not one of us had the courage to inquire. Those
inscrutable eyes and that high expansive brow were as impassive as the
Sphinx. Not a muscle twitched, not a line relented in the Captain’s
face, and not a man of us dared frame the ingenuously simple question:--

“Halliday, have you won the toss?”

We noted the Captain’s smallest movements now with wild-eyed anxiety.
We saw him wash his hands, we saw him part his hair, and when he said:
“Chuck me that towel, Lennox,” in sepulchral tones, his voice startled
us like an eighty-one ton gun. Then he proceeded to divest himself of
his blazer. “We are fielding!” flashed through our inner consciousness;
but--but he _might_ be going in first. He rolled his sleeves up with
horrible deliberation. Oh, why had not that wretched Lawson, miserable
Secretary as he was, the pluck to say: “Halliday, have you won the
toss?” Surely it was the Secretary’s place to do this, else what was
the good of having a Secretary if he couldn’t ask the Captain who was
going in, and simple things of that sort?

The Captain hung his blazer up reflectively on one of the pegs of his
locker; he foraged in his cricket bag; he drew forth a pair of pads.
“He’s taking wicket!” was the thought that made our flesh creep,
since he had been known to undertake these thankless duties on very
great occasions. But--but he _might_ be going in first. And at least
he might have had the common humanity to put us out of our misery. He
had buckled on one pad, and was carefully folding his trousers round
his ankle prior to adjusting the second, when he looked up sadly and
addressed me familiarly by name.

“Dimsdale,” he said slowly and meekly, “have you any very rooted
disinclination to going in first with me?”

The Secretary jumped up and literally fell upon the Captain’s neck.
The General Nuisance was immediately released. The Optimist and the
Pessimist were as brothers, identified in joy. The Worry amused himself
in a quiet way by turning cart-wheels across the floor. Indeed, it was
a moment when life was very good.

Now the honour was so stupendous that had been conferred upon me, that
it was more than a young and ambitious man with his name to make could
realize at first. It was beyond my most highly-tinted dreams that I
should be singled out to go in first with the Captain in my first
Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Why should I, of all the talented men
our team possessed, be chosen for this distinction? Was there not the
Humourist, with his dauntless “never-saw-such-bowling-in-my-life air”;
the Pessimist, who had played for the county twice this season; the
Ancient, with all the weight of his accumulated wisdom, his guile, and
his experience; the Worry, who if allowed to stay ten minutes, neither
men nor angels could remove; the General Nuisance, too, who must have
been an almost superhuman bat to be allowed to play at all? It was a
moment of my life when I said with all becoming modesty: “Thanks, old
chap,” and proceeded to put on my pads with hands that trembled.

“First wicket, Ancient,” said the Captain, writing down the order.
It was wonderful how merry the room had suddenly become: the buzz of
tongues, the whistling of the music of the music hall, the Humourist
working at his pun, the General Nuisance veiling his satisfaction in
gin and ginger beer, all testified that cricket was a noble sport, and
that life was really excellent.

“I say, you men,” said the Captain, “remember that our game’s to keep
in. No risks, mind; no hurry for runs, you know. We haven’t got a bit
of bowling, and somebody’s told ’em so.”

I was in the act of testing the handle of my bat, when I recollected
with a pang that I was minus my Authentics. What should I do? William
had not appeared with its substitute, yet in a couple of minutes I
should be going in to bat on perhaps the biggest occasion of my
career. Heaven knew I was horribly nervous as it was, so nervous, that
when I thought of marching out to that wicket, before that crowd,
to face that bowling, I began to desire a gentle death and a quiet
funeral. It was now five minutes past eleven, and still that confounded
William had not come! What _should_ I do? The more I thought of the
Magdalen, the Winchester, and the M.C.C., the more impossible they
became.

“Ready?” said the Captain.

“Ye--es,” said I; “q--quite ready.”

“Hickory aren’t out yet,” said the kind-hearted Optimist, looking
through the window.

“’Wonder why they don’t hurry,” said the General Nuisance; “I can
see that Dimsdale’s positively trembling to get at ’em. Besides, the
umpires have been out quite five minutes.”

“They’re funking us,” said the Humourist.

Ah, these humourists, what lion hearts they’ve got!

“Perhaps they are being photographed,” some enlightened mind suggested.

The Worry opened the door, although I vainly assured him that there
really was no hurry, to have a look at what Hickory were up to.

“Why,” said he breathlessly, “they’re playing two wicket-keepers.”

Sure enough, two men with pads on stood conversing in the doorway of
their dressing-room, and looking across at us.

“’Never heard of such a thing before,” said the Secretary, with a
puzzled air, “as a side having two wicket-keepers. H.C. must be a
blooming hurricane. But I’m not quite sure whether this is altogether
legal. Who’s got a copy of the rules?”

“Why, what are you fellows up to?” demanded Captain George from the
other side, gazing earnestly at Halliday’s pads and mine.

“The very thing I want to ask you,” said Halliday.

“We’re waiting for you to take the field,” said Trentham; “the umpires
have been out some time.”

“We are quite ready when you are,” said Halliday.

“_We’ve_ been ready the last five minutes.”

“Then why don’t you go out?”

“How can we go out until you are in the field?”

The position of Halliday’s jaw announced that he was completely at a
loss.

“Anyway,” said he, “what are Elphinstone and Archie doing with their
pads on?”

“_We_ want to know why you two have got yours on?”

“I told you we should go in,” said our Captain.

“But I said that we should,” said theirs.

“But I thought you were joking.”

“And I thought you were.”

“But I won the toss.”

“Pardon me, Halliday, but I won the toss.”

“Pardon me, Trentham, but you are quite wrong.”

“My dear Halliday, this is absurd!”

“Well, who called?”

“Hanged if I know; but I know I won the toss. But who did call?”

“I don’t know; but I’m certain that I won the toss.”

A howl of laughter broke from the light-minded persons in the other
room. But on our part we preserved a very religious gravity, I can
assure you. The dismay that had seized the whole team was terrible to
contemplate.

“Well, who saw us toss?” said their Captain confidently.

“Yes; who saw us toss?” said ours, with an equally full-toned
conviction.

Yet, unhappily or happily, sure I know not which, neither side could
produce a single witness.[C]

What was to be done? The crowd was growing highly impatient, and cries
of “Play up!” assailed us as we stood and argued.

“I don’t think there’s anything in the rules that provides for both
sides going in to bat,” drawled the General Nuisance; “therefore,
suppose we send in a man, you send in a man; you have a bowler on at
one end, we have one on at the other, and all field? That practically
obviates the difficulty, doesn’t it? And it’ll be ever so much nicer
for everybody.”

Though this solution was hailed by us as the height of ingenuity, and
“nice” to the last degree, singularly enough Hickory were blind to its
beauties. Therefore when our Captain said, “We’d better toss again,
hadn’t we?” it struck George Trentham that this was a rather good idea.

This time, that there might be no mistake, both sides crowded round
their irresponsible skippers. Hickory had a tendency to view the thing
as the finest joke they’d ever heard, but Little Clumpton to a man wore
a funereal gravity. Trentham produced a coin, and sent it spinning to
the ceiling.

“Tails!” cried our Captain.

The coin dropped on the wooden boards of the pavilion, and proceeded
to run round on its edges, as though enjoying the proceedings
thoroughly, whilst several enterprising men ran round after it.

“Tails it is!” said Lawson, who always arrived just a short head before
everybody else.

“Then I think,” said our Captain, with a most statesmanlike
deliberation, “all things considered, we shall be justified in going
in.”

A minute later Hickory streamed into the field, and were greeted
with great cheering. And as they issued forth the breathless William
appeared with Thornhill’s cap, just in the nick of time.



CHAPTER V

The Cussedness of Cricket


HAD I been in less of a tottering funk, I might have taken the
admirably timed arrival of the Authentics as an omen of good luck.
But I was in that suicidal frame of mind when a man wishes that he is
anything but what he is, anywhere but where he is, and that he has to
do aught but what he has to do. It is a frame of mind that can give for
deep-seated torture a long start to nightmares, weddings, sea-sickness,
and public speaking. If I were only going in first wicket, I shouldn’t
care! If I’d only an inkling of what the bowling was like! If only
it wasn’t Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory! If only the crowd wasn’t so
beastly big and demonstrative! If only it wasn’t such a glaring hot
day! If only this abject cap was not two sizes too small! If it was
only my own, and it didn’t look and feel so supremely ridiculous! If
I could only cut away to a prompt and very private death! Cricket is
quite a gentle, harmless game, but he is a lucky man who has not to
sweat some blood before he’s done with it.

“Ready, Dimsdale?” said the Captain.

I followed him sickly, fumbling at my batting-glove with nervous
fingers.

“Wish you luck, old man,” said some person of benevolent disposition,
as I issued forth. It is never exactly kind, however, to wish luck to
the keenly sensitive, as it leads them to think that they’ll certainly
need luck, and plenty of it, if they’re going to stay long. From the
Artistic Standpoint (capital letters, please, Mr. Printer!), it is a
thousand pities that I cannot say that when I stepped from the pavilion
on this great occasion to open the innings with my Captain, a man whose
name had penetrated to the remotest corners of the cricket world, I
held my head up with an air of conscious power. Why was I not, as the
Hero of this story, prepared to do the thing in style, in the manner
of the most accepted writers? Of course I ought to have marched to the
wicket, my heart big with courage, calm in the knowledge that the Hero
never does get less than fifty. I ought to have been ready to chastise
Villainy in the person of the Demon Bowler, by hitting his length balls
for six on the slightest provocation. I am sure that no less than this
is expected of me by every right-minded reader. Nor am I blind by any
means to my obligations; yet somehow it is so much easier to get runs
with the pen than with the bat. At least I have always found it so!

I daresay that, except for being a trifle pale, I looked quite happy to
all but the trained observer. I don’t suppose that ten persons of the
shouting thousands present had the faintest notion that the trim-built
chap of medium height who walked in with H. J. Halliday, his bat tucked
beneath his arm, as he fastened on his glove, had limbs of paper and a
heart of fear. There was nought to indicate that there was a dreadful
buzzing in his ears, a black mist before his eyes, that his knee-joints
were threatening to let him down at every step, and that he was praying
to be bowled first ball, to be put out of his misery at once.

When you go in to bat, it is not that you dread aught special and
particular. You would cheerfully endure anything rather than your
present ordeals. You are not afraid of getting a “duck.” On the
contrary, you’ll be almost happy if you get one. It is the mere
sensation of an impending something, you know not what, that plays
skittles with your impressionable nature.

“’Mind taking first ball, Halliday?” I said hoarsely.

“If you like,” said he; then added, “Just play your usual, and you’re
bound to get ’em.”

True cricketers are the soul of kindness.

Carefully noting at which end the wicket-keeper was, I just as
carefully went to the one at which he was not. The mighty H. C.
Trentham was loosening his arm, and sending down a few preliminaries.
I watched him as keenly as the black mists before my eyes allowed. He
brought his long brown arm right over with a beautiful, easy, automatic
swing. The ball slipped from his fingers at an ordinary pace, but
as soon as it took the ground it spun off the pitch with an inward
twist at three times the rate one would expect. He looked every inch
a bowler, powerfully built in every part, his body supple as a cat’s,
a remarkable length of limb, and, better still, a pair of extremely
strong and heavy-timbered legs.

However, the man preparing to resist him looked every inch a batsman,
too. Lithe, alert, calm, he seemed quietly happy that he had got to
face a bowler worthy of his artifice. The manner in which he asked
for his guard, and took it, the elaborate process he went through
to ensure the maintenance of “two leg,” the diligent way in which
he observed the placing of the field, and the freedom with which
he ordered the screen about, all pointed to the conclusion that if
Hickory got him out for under fifty on that wicket, they would be able
to congratulate themselves. There is as much difference between the
first-class cricketer and the ordinary club-man as there is between a
professional actor and the gifted amateur. The club-man may be a marvel
of conscientiousness, discretion, and enthusiasm, and able to recite
Steel and Lyttelton from the preface to the index at a moment’s notice,
but he has not that air of inevitableness that emphasizes the county
man scoring off the best of Briggs and Richardson, and apparently able
to compass any feat in the batting line but the losing of his wicket.

The terrific H. C. Trentham was now ready to deal destruction.
Anxiously had I observed the placing of the field, the most noticeable
items of which were the wicket-keeper standing a dozen yards behind
the sticks, and the four men in the slips still deeper, with their
hands on their thighs, and their noses on a level with the bails.
The bowler measured his distance, and scratched up the turf at his
starting-point. The batsman set himself. The bowler walked a couple of
yards, then broke into a trot, that gradually grew into a run, and when
he arrived at the crease, with the velocity of a locomotive he hurled
the ball from his hand, and his body after it, almost faster than the
eye could follow. The Captain fairly dug his bat into his block-hole,
and the ball came back straight down the pitch, whizzing and rotating
in half-circles. It was a most determined and barefaced attempt to
“york” the captain, and the bowler smiled all over his countenance in a
very winning manner. The Captain set himself again. The next ball was
of perfect length, a few inches on the off, and turned in suddenly,
with the ungenerous idea of hitting the top of the off stump; but the
Captain, watching it all the way, met it very warily, his right leg
well against his bat, and blocked it gently back again to the bowler.
The third had a very similar design, but happening to be pitched a
little farther up, it came back as though propelled from a gun. The
bowler neatly picked it up one hand, and drew the first cheer from the
crowd. The fourth was full of guile. It was a trifle on the short side,
wide of the off stump, and instead of turning in, was going away with
the bowler’s arm. The Captain drew himself erect, held up his bat,
and never made the least attempt to play it. The bowler smiled more
winningly than ever. A London critic unburdened his mind by shouting
“Nottingham!” The fifth was wickedness itself. The bowler covered his
fifteen yards of run with exactly the same action and velocity, hurled
down the ball with the same frantic effort of arms and body, but,
behold, the ball was as slow as possible, and the eye could distinctly
follow it as it spun in the air with a palpable leg-bias. Even the
great batsman who had to receive it was at fault. He played a little
bit too soon, but, happily for Little Clumpton, the ground was so hard
and true that it refused to take the full amount of work, and instead
of its curling in and taking the Captain’s middle, as the bowler had
intended, it refused to come in farther than the leg stick, which was
conscientiously covered by the Captain’s pad. There it hit him, and
rolled slowly towards the umpire, whilst the wicket-keeper pelted
grotesquely after it.

“Come on!” I cried, seizing the opportunity, for I was very, very
anxious for the Captain to take first over from the other end.
Accordingly, we scuttled down the pitch, and I got home just as the
wicket-keeper threw down my citadel.

“Well bowled, Charlie!” said the Captain. But I think there was more
in this than may appear, as I believe the thoughtful Captain wished
to attract my careful attention to that particular ball. Meantime the
bowler had been grinning so violently at his own exceeding subtlety
that mid-off politely requested him not to commit such an outrage on
the handiwork of nature.

“Tom, you have a try that end,” said Captain George, throwing the ball
to T. S. M. “Set the field where you want ’em.”

“Left-hand round the wicket!” the umpire announced to the batsman;
“covers ’em both, sir.”

It was plain, by the irregular arrangement of the field, which had
three men out, that T. S. M. was slow.

“You don’t want a third man; send him out into the country, and bring
point round a bit!”

Now as these commands were issued most distinctly from the top of
the coach, and as Miss Grace Trentham was at that moment the sole
occupant of the same, she must be held responsible for them. A wide
smile flickered in the face of every fielder, including that of the
happy-go-lucky Hickory captain. But let it be observed, in passing,
that there are captains to whom this advice, however Pallas-like, would
not appear “good form.” It was evident that Miss Grace knew her man.

“By Jove! she’s right,” said the good-humoured soldier; “get round,
Jimmy.”

“She always is,” said the Harrow captain, her youngest brother; “and I
wish she wasn’t. She knows a jolly sight too much.”

“Why don’t she qualify for Kent,” said J. P. Carteret, as he waddled
off to deep square-leg.

The Harrow boy began with a singular sort of movement that must have
had a resemblance to the war-dance of the cheerful Sioux, or the
festive Shoshanee, which developed into a corkscrew kind of action
that was very puzzling to watch, and imparted to the ball a peculiar
and deceptive flight. He was quite slow, with a certain amount of
spin and curl. The Captain played right back to him every time, and,
like the old Parliamentary hand he was, there was very little of his
wicket to be seen, as his legs did their best to efface it. The Captain
had come in with the determination to take no liberties. He meant to
play himself thoroughly well in before turning his attention to the
secondary matter of making runs. If T. S. M. had been a Peate, his
first over could not have been treated with a more flattering respect.
The consequence was that he opened with a maiden also.

My turn had now arrived. I was called on to face the finest amateur
bowler in England. Judging by the one over of his that I had had the
privilege of witnessing, he appeared to combine the pace of a Kortright
with the wiles of a Spofforth. Taking him altogether, he did not seem
to be the nicest bowler in the world for a man of small experience and
ordinary ability to oppose. But I remembered vaguely that the wicket
was perfection, and that a straight bat would take a lot of beating.
Besides, the black mists had lifted somewhat from my eyes, and the
beastly funk had considerably decreased, as it often does when one is
actually at work. All the same, I took my guard without knowing exactly
what I did; I observed the field without knowing precisely how it was
arranged, yet could see enough of it to be aware that point was looking
particularly grim, and half inclined to chuckle, as though saying to
himself, “Oh, he’s a young ’un, is he?”

It was perhaps the sardonic countenance of point that stirred the
old Adam in me, for suddenly I took heart of grace, recollected the
Captain’s “Play your usual, and you’re bound to get ’em,” and made up
my mind to play out at H. C. Trentham as though my life depended on it.
All the same, I could have wished that the cap I wore was my own, and
not two sizes smaller than it should be, and that I could divest my
brain of Miss Grace’s sinister remark anent Charlie’s arm getting over
the screen, at the end at which (doubtless at her suggestion) he had
gone on to bowl. Besides, he was grinning in a way that, though surely
very self-satisfied and ridiculous, was disconcerting to a high degree.
I certainly think that if in the umpire’s opinion a bowler takes too
great liberties with his face at any period of his delivery of the
ball, the said umpire should be empowered to “no-ball” the said bowler.
Probably the counties will petition M.C.C.

I planted my right foot on the edge of the crease with mathematical
care, and set myself to meet the best bowler at either ’Varsity since
Sammy Woods. My straining eyes never left him for an instant as he
picked the ball up, worked his thumb up and down the seam, rubbed
it on the ground, and then walked jauntily to his starting-point. I
could see him all the way; the beautiful clear sunlight, the bright
new red ball, and my own intentness almost enabled me to read the
maker’s name on the cover as he held it in his hand whilst he walked,
trotted, galloped to the crease. As he brought his arm high over his
head, despite the cessation of the screen’s assistance, I could see
the thumb and two fingers in which he grasped the ball and every bit
of his powerful wrist work. I had no time to think or to know where
the ball was, however. But as it came humming from his hand instinct
said, “Go forward hard!” and forward I went, leg, bat, and elbow, for
all that I was worth. There was a delicious vibration that told me the
ball was timed to the second full in the middle of the bat. It flew
like a streak to mid-off all along the carpet; but mid-off happened to
be a county man, and it was back in the bowler’s hands and threatening
the Captain’s wicket just as “No!” had left my mouth. And there was
a personal compliment implied in the blinking eyes of H. C. Trentham
and the benevolent smile of H. J. Halliday that was a recompense for
all the pains I was enduring and many hours of “duck”-requited toil.
I was conscious of an elated thrill running through my fibres as I
awaited number two. Again I watched it eagerly as it came spinning
through the sunlight and humming like a top; again I could not say
exactly where it was, but out went bat, and leg, and elbow as before,
and mid-off was afforded another opportunity for the exhibition of his
skill. I set myself defiantly for number three. Let H.C. Trentham bowl
his heart out. The third came along humming, and whizzing, and spinning
in the manner of the other two, but I had a vague sort of idea that
it was a little wider and a little farther up. It was faster than an
express train, but it merely appeared to delicately kiss the middle of
the bat in the gentlest, sweetest way.

[Illustration: “Forward I went, leg, bat, and elbow.”

  _Willow, the King._]      [_Page 74._]

“Oh, well hit!” came the voice of the Captain down the wicket. The
crowd broke into a roar, and in a perfect ecstasy I looked into what
I guessed should be the direction of the ball. Behold! there was
cover-point on the verge of the boundary waiting whilst a spectator
officiously returned it. It was merely the force of habit that was
responsible for that fourer, but the sensation of pure rapture was
incomparable. As there is nothing in the whole range of poetry or
prose with which to point a parallel, it must be allowed that beside a
perfectly-timed boundary hit, on a hard ground, from fast bowling, all
other delights of this life are as nothingness.

The fourth ball came along in much the same way as the third, yet was
appreciably shorter and slower. I left it severely alone. The fifth was
a regular uprooting yorker, but I got my bat down in time and chopped
it away. So much for the crack’s first over. I had broken my duck in
the most handsome manner; I could see the ball; I was beginning to feel
alarmingly happy; I never felt so fit and so much like making runs. And
I had only to continue as I’d started to be sure of a trial for the
county next week against Somerset. But I must restrain my eagerness,
play steady, and keep cool.

The Captain adopted the same tactics of masterly inactivity in regard
to the second over of the youthful T.S.M. He was quite an ordinary club
bowler compared to his great brother at the other end. A shortish one
was hooked quietly round to leg for a single, and it was my turn to
meet him. There was not a hint of my previous vacillation in the way I
took my guard. The buzzing in my head had altogether gone; my eye was
as clear and keen as possible. I had had my baptism of fire already.
This was very common stuff; indeed, so much so that I took the liberty
of turning the second ball I had of it to leg for three.

It being the last ball of the over, I had again to face H. C. With
a bowler of his quality it requires a man of very great inexperience
to be quite at ease or to think of attempting liberties. Therefore,
again I concentrated the whole of my attention on every ball; and the
billiard-table pitch and a straight, unflinching bat enabled me to cope
with his second over. It was a maiden, but it called for brilliancy on
the part of mid-off, and a magnificent bit of fielding by Carteret in
the slips, who saved a keen late cut from being a boundary to make it
one. Each ball was timed to the instant; my wrists and the rare old
blade with the wrapping at the bottom seemed to be endowed with magic;
the sun was just in the right place; I had forgotten all about my cap,
the screen, the might of the attack--forgotten everything but the joy
of achievement, so supreme was the sense of making runs with certainty
and ease from county bowling, in the presence of an appreciative crowd,
on a great occasion. Here was Elysium. It was a sufficient recompense
for a hundred failures. If I kept playing this game I couldn’t help
but get ’em. Fifty was assured, perhaps; who knew----? But no man can
be sanguine in regard to his first century. That is a bourn that few
travellers ever reach.

The Captain played T. S. M. gently for another single. I trotted down
blithely to the other end. He was still bowling his slow leg-breaks,
but it would be folly to attempt to drive him, as his flight was so
deceptive; besides, he had three men out. One ball which he delivered
a full two yards behind the crease was tossed up so high that it was
difficult to resist, as it appeared to be almost a half-volley at first
sight. It actually dropped shorter than his others, however. This was
the ball with which he usually got his wickets; and although, crude
as it was, it might do well enough for schoolboys, it was to be hoped
that he didn’t expect a man who intended to appear next week for his
county to fall a victim to it! If he did, he would very probably be
disappointed. The feel of that three to leg was still lingering in my
wrist, and I was certain that this stroke could be played with impunity
on this wicket. Besides, it would show the Captain at the other end
that I was by no means content to follow his lead, but had resources
of my own. Again, if I persevered in getting T. S. M. away to leg,
he would be certain to pitch them up a bit, and if he could only be
persuaded to do that, sure as fate I should go out to him and lift him
clean over the ring! It wasn’t such a very big hit; besides, I felt
capable of doing anything with ordinary club bowling. Really, I never
felt so fit, and on such excellent terms with everybody and everything!
When I received the first ball of T. S. M.’s next over I had a plan
of the positions of the on-side fielders in the corner of my eye.
But it was such an excellent length that I had to play defensively.
To my infinite pleasure, I immediately saw that the second was his
usual shortish one. I promptly prepared to help myself to another
three, stepped into my wicket so to do, but was so anxious to seize
my opportunity that I had not troubled to note exactly how short it
was. Therefore it rose a little higher than I expected, and I was also
a little bit too soon. It hit me just above the pad with an almost
caressing gentleness.

“How _was_ that?” said the bowler, turning round to the umpire.

This didn’t bother me in the least. I merely felt a trifle annoyed
that my ardour had caused me to let off so bad a ball. But my pleasant
meditations were suddenly disturbed by adjacent voices,--

“Chuckerrupp!”

It never entered my head that I could be out by any possibility. The
ball was a very vulgar long hop. I looked at the umpire with an air of
bewilderment. He had a stolid solemnity that was funereal. I saw his
hand go up. Thereon, with the blood buzzing into my ears, I made tracks
for the pavilion. All the way I went I could not realize that I was
out. My only sensation was the not unpleasing one of walking swiftly.
Dead silence reigned as I marched in head down, thinking of nothing in
particular. But the vision of the umpire’s upthrown hand seemed to be
painted on my retina.

The Ancient was in the dressing-room brandishing his bat.

“Rough luck, old man!” he said.

Thereupon he went out to take my vacant place at the wicket, while I
sat down, slowly mopped my wet face, rinsed my parched mouth, and then
proceeded to take my pads off in the dullest, most apathetic manner.



CHAPTER VI

Of a Young Person in Brown Holland


I WAS still seated, striving to break to myself the news that I
really must be out, and that my brave dreams were as dust, when the
man I least desired to see--the General Nuisance--appeared with
his condolence. He placed a shilling in my hand with an air of
indescribable tenderness.

“What’s this for?” I said.

“For your cricket outfit,” said he. “I knew that you’d wish to dispose
of it at once by private treaty, as you’ll never touch a bat again if
you live to be a hundred. A shilling for the lot, and a pretty liberal
offer.”

When I slowly raised my face and looked at the General Nuisance, there
was that within it which caused him to somewhat hurriedly remember that
he had “got to see a man about a dog,” and he, therefore, could not
possibly stay just then to discuss the details. The utterly abandoned
appear to enjoy a charmed existence. It was the same at the wicket.
I’ve seen the General Nuisance dropped more times in one afternoon than
men who have had their moral natures properly developed are in the
course of a season.

Having convinced myself at last that I was actually out, I got up and
donned my blazer with an assumption of sad-eyed resignation. A case
of l.b.w. offers no scope for original and forcible combinations of
phrase; it has exhausted them quite a long time ago. Thus I filled
a pipe, and began pathetically to smoke. If it were not that the
gods gave tobacco to us to assuage our miseries, it is certain that
common humanity would insist on a lethal chamber being attached to the
pavilion of every cricket-ground, whereby poor mortals placed as I was
now might not continue in their sufferings.

I eventually went out and sat down with as much dignity as I could
assume on the pavilion front. There, staring me in the face, was the
grim legend, 10-1-7. Presently I found the courage to look at the
game. But it reminded me too acutely of the horrid void left gaping in
my young ambition. How I could see the ball, and how absurdly simple
did the bowling look! It always does when you’ve been in and got out
for a few. If you’ve been in and made a score, it is usual to advise
your successors to play a watchful game, as the bowling is by no
means so easy as it seems. Why didn’t the Ancient cut that ball for
four, instead of pecking at it? Why didn’t the Captain jump into those
ridiculous donkey-drops and hit ’em to the moon, instead of playing
back and contenting himself with singles? It was this pottering,
afternoon-tea kind of cricket that was ruining the game.

The team agreed that they had never seen me shape so well. But what
solace is it to be told this when one is out for seven? Here was I
fitness incarnate, timing and seeing the ball to a hair, condemned to
sit hours on the hard seat of that pavilion, eating my heart out with
inactivity, while others got ’em. Verily cricket is a cheerful pastime!
The perfect wicket, the glorious day, the appreciative crowd, the
chance of fame, and then l.b.w. 7.

“Of course, the ball did a lot,” said the Pessimist. “’Wouldn’t have
hit the wicket by a mile. Your leg couldn’t possibly have been in
front, and, of course in your humble opinion the blithering umpire is
either drunk or delirious.”

“Grimston,” said the Humourist, “you appear to suffer from a deficient
sympathy. It is very unkind of you to make remarks of this sort, when
you can see that the poor fellow is in pain. It is not humour and it is
not humanity.”

There was no alternative but to continue smoking with that placid
indifference that alone can cope with the vulgar, common wit that is
levelled at ourselves.

“Look at Brightside, lucky brute!” said the Secretary, “jawing on the
coach there with Miss Grace. Keeps her all to himself, the selfish
beggar! instead of coming down and introducing us.”

The Optimist appeared to be having a particularly happy time. He was
seated beside Miss Grace on the box-seat, talking in the most animated
manner, whilst she put down the runs in the Hickory score-book, which
she held on her knee. It is impossible to assess the exact amount of
envy he provoked in the susceptible bosoms of his side seated on the
pavilion front.

We were still discussing the good fortune of the Optimist, and watching
him pursue it, when he climbed down from his conspicuous position and
came along towards eight of his flannel-clad colleagues, who had a
terrible quantity of inflammable material in their manly interiors.

“’Do believe he’s coming for us,” said the quick-eyed Secretary.
“S’pose he takes the bally team?”

“Isn’t it a good thing we’re so good-looking?” said the Humourist.

“I really can’t help _my_ personal appearance,” said the General
Nuisance, with a simper.

“Soap might,” I said coarsely. But my temperature was very low.

The answer of the General Nuisance was very properly taking the form of
a naked fist; and I, on my part, was just proposing to test the staying
powers of his singularly beautiful aquiline nose, when the Optimist
arrived and lifted up his voice.

“Dimsdale,” said he importantly, “Grace Trentham wants to see you. She
thinks your batting’s prime. ’Says the way you stood up to Charlie the
perfection of style and confidence. No end of a critic, I can tell you.
’Says your crack to cover’s test thing she’s seen in that line since
Lionel Palairet’s off-drive. In fact, my son, I rather think if you’ll
come and be presented to her you won’t be so very sorry. She wants to
see you awfully.”

The Optimist really was a very delightful person. He spoke loud
enough for all the team to hear. Nor was he content to make a bald
announcement of my honours, but managed to embroider them with an art
that soured the uninvited for an hour. It was remarkable how promptly
the whole team became occupied with other things. The Ancient fluked H.
C. wretchedly through the slips for three.

“Run it out!” they yelled, as though the match depended on it. “Go on,
Ancient! Get back, Jack! Oh, well run! Well run!”

“Come on, Dimsdale,” said the Optimist, the moment this riot subsided.
“Let us get away from these nasty, noisy cricketers, and go into more
refined society.”

“Have you noticed,” said the Pessimist to the Treasurer, “how some
men are never content unless they are sitting beside something that’s
got a frock on? Never saw the fun myself in uttering bland lies to
insipid schoolgirls, to estimate the amount of music in their ‘ohs’ and
‘reallys!’”

“Mind you men bat your very best,” said the Optimist, as we departed,
“then perhaps Grace Trentham’ll send for some of you. Never know your
luck, you know, do you?”

“How gaudy!” growled the Secretary. “Great encouragement to get runs.”

I felt this to be a moment of my middling unilluminated life. But to
show the Goddess that Nature had designed me to support her favours
with due dignity, and, therefore, that her confidence in me was not
in the least degree misplaced, I strove to walk modestly in my public
decorations. As we went to the coach the pent-up enthusiasm of the
Optimist broke forth.

“Tell you what, old chap,” he said, “she’s quite the jolliest girl
I know. One of the sort you read about, you know. No end of a fine
girl, I can tell you. Not a bit o’ side and small talk, and Society
manner, and that sort o’ rot. Awfully good people too, the Trenthams.
By Jove! old chap, if I could only bat like you! If I’d only got your
confidence, and your nerve, and your wrist!”

“It’s awfully good of you, old man,” I said, with a touch of
complacency, I fear, “to bring me along and give me a show, when you
might have kept her all to yourself.”

“Not at all,” said he. “Sent me to fetch you, you know. Besides, you
sat there looking so deuced chippy that it struck us that you ought to
be made to buck up a bit.”

“H’m! Ah! yes!” I murmured.

The Optimist was one of the hopelessly good sorts of the world,
but he never did know when to leave off. He should have remembered
that a woman’s admiration is one thing, but that her pity is quite
another. But, then again, how like the good old Optimist to neglect
his own opportunities! He was not altogether blind to that side of the
question, though, since he said feelingly,--

“She says that Elphinstone and Carteret are staying at the Rectory with
her father.”

“Well,” said I, with the brutal directness of the average man,
“Carteret happens to be married, and I saw in the _World_ last week
that Elphinstone’s just got engaged.”

“That a fact!” he cried, with a fervour that gave him away.

I regret to say that I laughed to myself in a cynical manner.

“Grace, this is Mr. Dimsdale, whom you saw batting just now,” said the
Optimist, as we halted under the drag. “Dimsdale, Miss Trentham, whose
brother got you leg before.”

“Awful fluke it was, too,” said the coach’s fair occupant frankly, in
the act of bowing; and then added, “How do you? Won’t you come up?
Heaps of room, and you’ll see ever so much better.”

As she looked down at us, and we looked up at her, I discovered with
alarming suddenness that Miss Grace Trentham had a pair of eyes of
remarkable beauty, large and clear, and very blue, indeed, with long
dark lashes drooping on her cheeks. She had also the colouring that
one only sees in the English girl grown in the open air. In itself it
was a pastoral, as sweet as a mown hayfield in a sunny June. It was
of the purest light brown, not quite dark enough for chestnut, but,
as I happen to be a promising batsman, and not a budding novelist,
I am utterly at a loss to describe exactly the kind of tint I mean.
Therefore, you must excuse my limitations, particularly as you _may_
find me playing for the County one day, if I confess that the utmost
my literary art can do for Miss Grace Trentham’s skin is to say that
it most resembled in the richness of its hue a cup of strong tea with
plenty of thick cream in it. She had heavy coils of hair of a similar
baffling shade, and a mischievous curl or two that made her eyebrows
laugh. She was an early-morning girl, English to the bone, and clean
and limber as a thorough-bred. I should not have suspected her of
afterthoughts, and do not doubt that had I asked her what her opinion
was of “Treasure Island,” she would have said without the slightest
hesitation, “Oh, isn’t it just ripping!”

When on her invitation we climbed to the seats beside her, we found
that she was scoring with a diligence as wonderful as it was artistic.
She had two fountain pens--one of black ink, to put down the runs; the
other of red, to take the bowling analysis.

“Awfully jolly pleased, Mr. Dimsdale, to see you out so soon,” she said.

“Oh!” said I; my jaw fell.

“You were shaping a great deal too well, you know,” she added.

My jaw resumed its normal position.

“You played Charlie like a book,” she said. “Met him before?”

“Oh, no,” I said briskly.

“Then you batted real well,” she said. “For Charlie’s the best bowler
in England now that Tom Richardson’s stale. He’s top of the averages
this week. One hundred and fifty-five wickets for 13·83, and he’s
certain to get another fifty before the season’s done. At Lord’s he
fairly had Oxford on toast; they _were_ in a frightful funk.”

“Yes, yes,” I groaned; feebly adding to cover my distress, “what one
would call the bluest of the blue, Miss Trentham.”

Miss Trentham transfixed me with a look of whimsical enquiry. Then she
said quickly: “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry I didn’t notice your cap. Why weren’t
you there to stop the rot? And why didn’t you get your blue when you
were up? They only gave you a show in the Freshers’.”

“Nothing near good enough,” I said humbly. But how the deuce did she
know that I’d only had a show in the Freshers’? I had yet to learn that
her full family title was Grace, the Walking Wisden, because she was so
well grounded in that indispensable work that she could repeat even its
advertisements by heart.

“’Would be now, Grace, don’t you think?” said the friendly Optimist.

“Ra-_ther_. His style’s O. K. He watches the ball, too.”

“But it’s such a beautiful wicket,” said I. “You can play forward at
anything.”

“It _is_ a good wicket,” she said, “but I could see you watching
Charlie all the way. And that’s where ’Varsity bats generally fail,
don’t you know. Seen dozens of ’em, blues too, and wonderful school
reputations, and all that, regular ‘lions on lawns.’ Put on ’em a
Burroughes and Watts’, and they’ll play like the Badminton. But just
let the wicket begin to ‘talk’ a bit, then it’s another story. Let me
see, were you not in the Winchester eleven?”

“Yes,” I said; “just got in.”

“You must have been well coached. I do like to see a man look at the
ball. Oh, was that a hit? No; byes. Dear! dear! Edgcome is a dreadful
muff behind the sticks. Can’t take Charlie at all. Why don’t he stand
back farther? Or why don’t they have a long-stop? All right, umpire!”

The umpire having waved his finger to signal the byes, the scorer waved
hers to show that she had got them.

“Forty up!” she called down to the small boy who was attending to “the
telegraph.” “It’s about time we had another wicket, don’t you think?”

“We are all serene at present,” said the Optimist cheerily. “I think
Halliday’s about played himself in, and there’s no man better worth
watching when he takes root. Oh! very pretty, Jack. Run ’em out!”

He had just got one of H. C.’s fastest away for three. A frown clouded
the open countenance of Miss Grace.

“Toddles,” she cried to the Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, who was nearest
to us in the out-field, “just tell Charlie to tell George to take
one of those men out of the slips and put him for the draw. Oh, and
Toddles, tell him not too deep to save the single. We’re going to give
nothing away if _I_ can help it.”

“Why do they call him Toddles?” said I.

“’Cause his legs are so short,” she said curtly. “Oh, and just look
where he’s got his mid-on. Toddles, tell him his mid-on wants to be
straighter. George may be a good old sort, and all that, but he’s no
more fit to be captain than he is to play for England. But I should
have thought Archie _would_ have known better.”

As I was at pains to subsequently explain to those members of our side
who were not privileged to be sitting beside Miss Grace Trentham,
it was a most fascinating thing to observe her conducting a highly
technical and animated conversation, ordering a team of county
cricketers about with some caustic comments on the same, scoring every
run, taking the analysis, and keeping her eye on the small boy, “the
telegraph,” and all the fine points of the game.

“Mr. Dimsdale,” she said, after Captain George had carried out the
sedulously conveyed commands of his sister, “Mr. Dimsdale, what were
you about, to get out to a long hop of my young brother Tom’s? He can’t
bowl a little bit. No length no spin, no break, no devil, no anything.
Plain as print! Over-confidence, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid it was,” I confessed.

“Great pity,” she said reflectively. “I should rather have liked you
to stay a bit; you’d have been worth looking at. And I’ve just got my
doubts about that decision. L B W to left arm round _is_ always a bit
fishy, isn’t it? Not, you know, that I’m at all sorry that you’re out.
I’m Hickory, of course, and all that, although I _do_ like to see a man
play the game. You see, I’m sorry and I’m not sorry. Oh, hang it! I
can’t explain it!”

Both the Optimist and I had the ill manners to smile with some breadth.
But the solecism was worth committing, if only for the sake of
observing the gleam of envy that ran along the row of cricketers on the
pavilion front. Weren’t we enjoying ourselves! And they could have been
so much farther from the mark. I might never have been leg before in my
life.

“’Mustn’t get over-confident, you know, if you’re going to make a
first-rater,” Miss Grace said authoritatively; “great mistake. But I
believe you were not so _very_ confident when you first went in. In
fact, I thought you were just--just a wee bit nervous. I wouldn’t have
minded betting a shilling that Charlie did you first over. Weren’t you
a bit nervous?”

“Oh dear, no,” I said, resenting the imputation with great robustness.
“I’m never nervous.”

She was evidently a young person of the most horrible penetration. What
could have put these ideas into her mind?

“Don’t you think,” she said suddenly, “that my young brother Tom would
get on better if he took to playing marbles? His bowling is dreadfully
awful, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s not so good as your brother Charlie’s,” I said
diplomatically.

“Thank you,” she said sardonically; “I’ll write that down. But say,
yes; I _do_ want you to say, yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, I maintain in the face of all my people that it is
absolute rubbish. They all think he’s rather good for a boy. They say
at Harrow that he’s going to make another Dowson. But if that’s so, it
don’t take much to make a Dowson, does it? Do, Mr. Dimsdale, please say
that you think it’s awful rot. It is, you know, really. And the amount
of side that boy’s got on is something extraordinary. He might be the
Old Man himself. Thinks himself no end of a swell ’cause he’s diddled
a few schoolboys with his donkey-drops. Never saw such a length in my
life. Why don’t George shunt him and give Billington a try?”

Even as she spoke the captain, who was now thoroughly set, was seen
to gather himself for a great effort. At last he ventured to have a
go at this severely criticised slow bowler. Up and up went the ball a
remarkable height, and, to the horror of the Optimist and myself, we
saw that it must drop into the hands of the little parson just below us
on the boundary. We both held our breaths in a spasm of suspense, but
Miss Grace seemed as happy as possible.

“It’s all right,” she said cheerfully; “Toddles’ll have him. He never
drops anything he can get to; and he’s judging this to a ‘T.’ What a
height it is, though, and deceptive, too! He’ll have to go back a bit
now.”

Next instant a derisive howl broke from the crowd. The little parson,
famed the whole of England over for his brilliancy and certainty at
third man and in the country, having slightly misjudged the flight and
height of the catch, had had to go back in a hurry at the last moment,
with the result that his hands and body were in a very overbalanced
kind of position in which to receive the ball. He had failed to hold
it.

“Oh, Toddles! Toddles!” cried Miss Grace, in agonized accents; “what
_are_ you doing?”

The relief of the Optimist and myself was such that we must have hugged
one another had we not been in a place so public. Poor Miss Grace,
though, was perfectly crimson with mortification, and we could fairly
hear the tears in her voice as she said with a sublime pathos, “He’ll
get a hundred now!”



CHAPTER VII

Conversational


“I’LL never forgive that wretched Toddles!” said Miss Grace. “It _was_
careless of him. It’s inexcusable for a county man to drop anything.
The little brute!”

“But, my dear Grace,” said the Optimist, kind soul, who looked at
everything from a humanitarian standpoint, “the best men are liable to
err.”

“They shouldn’t be,” said Miss Grace fiercely, “with the practice they
get.”

“But human nature is fallible,” urged the Optimist gently.

“I don’t care a pin about human nature!” said Miss Grace, more
fiercely than ever. “What’s human nature got to do with cricket? Did
that miserable Toddles drop that catch, or did he not? It’s simply
disgraceful. I hate slovenly fielding.”

“It was a very difficult catch, though,” said the Optimist, still
doing his best for the fallen favourite. “Awful lot of spin on, and
look at the height; besides, the sun was in his eyes, and the flight
must have been dreadfully deceptive.”

“I don’t care about the spin,” said the inexorable Miss Grace, “or the
height, or the flight, or the light, or the sight, or the anything.
Toddles ought to have had that catch. Jimmy Douglas ’ud have had it
in his mouth. And if your Captain does get a hundred, I’ll give that
wretched Toddles such a talking to as he won’t forget in a hurry. You
can laugh, Mr. Dimsdale. It’s all right for you: sixty-four and only
one wicket down. We can’t afford to give away a leg-bye on a wicket
like this.”

“But I never saw better ground-fielding than Hickory’s to-day,” said I
soothingly. Certainly their fielding as a whole had been excellent.

“They know they’ve got to field when they play for Hickory,” said Miss
Grace sternly. “They know better than to get slack. A man who won’t
field oughtn’t to be allowed to play. Every man can field if he tries.
Even poor old George has to buck up when he plays for Hickory. He knows
that I simply won’t have it. He daren’t funk a single one; and he has
to get down to ’em with both hands, rheumatism or no rheumatism. I’ll
have none of his Artillery tricks. Gave him an hour’s practice this
morning before we started, and by the time he’s been here a month he’ll
be quite a reformed character. Look, he’s positively energetic. Did you
see his smart return. He knows I’m watching him. Well fielded, George!”

As her clear voice rang out, the face of every one of the eleven
fielders lit up with a smile.

“That seems to please them,” said I slyly. “I suppose you must be very
chary with praise.”

“I have to be,” she said. “They take an awful lot of bringing to the
scratch. George says I’m a regular martinet; and my young brother
Tom says I’m a confounded nuisance. But that’s his cheek, of course;
he’s an unlicked cub, don’t you see; he’s got to go through the mill
yet. Do you know, Cheery [this apparently was a name of her own for
the Optimist], that I can’t stand these schoolboys at all. My young
brother Tom had quite a nice little way of bringing two or three of
the Harrow eleven, and one or two other men of light and leading from
the other schools, down to the Vicarage. Talk about ‘side,’ I never
saw anything like it. They wanted a Wisden all to themselves; and to
hear ’em talk you’d have thought that Stoddy meant taking ’em all out
with him in the autumn. They thought Archie’s batting was ‘not so bad,’
and Charlie’s bowling ‘rather decent’; but what a pity it was that I
hadn’t seen Comery of Eton, and Prospect of Charterhouse. And they
wouldn’t have a few on our lawn because they thought it a bad thing for
their style. Style, indeed! their style consists in jolly well going
forward to every jolly thing. And they didn’t bowl ’cause it was too
much fag; and there wasn’t much fun in fielding. I told my old guv’nor
pretty straight that they’d have to clear out; and they had to. And
now I absolutely refuse to have ’em. No more Harrow boys if I know
it. One has to draw the line somewhere, hasn’t one? Not that my young
brother Tom is half a bad sort, really. Of course his side is something
dazzling; but when he’s been from school for about a week it begins to
get some o’ the gilt chipped off it. Don’t _quite_ do, don’t you know.
Some of those other fellows’ sisters think it just beautiful and admire
it ever so. I don’t. But I’m gradually getting my young brother Tom to
forget himself a bit. He don’t spread himself now anything like he used
to. I think we shall lick him into shape, and make a county cricketer
of him after all. But he’ll have to roll up a different sort o’ length
to that. ’Nother boundary. Halliday only wants two more for his fifty.
Eighty up, boy. Hullo! I see Archie’s beginning to look a bit prickly.
Doesn’t suit his book at all. Oh, they’re going to change the bowling
at last, are they? Dear me, what intelligence! Who are they putting
on? What, Swipes, with his awful stuff! If they really _want_ ’em to
get runs why don’t they put on Toddles? What with their fielding, and
their judgment, and their general knowledge o’ the game, they’re simply
giving this match away. Eighty-two for one; what rot!”

Miss Grace’s annoyance was increasing in company with the score. As the
sting was extracted from Hickory’s bowling, and it came in for severer
punishment, she grew particularly caustic in her criticisms. And the
greater her anger, the greater her frankness, till presently she became
a real delight to sit and listen to. Before long the Optimist and I
were holding our sides for simple mirth.

“I don’t wonder at it,” she said; “must be no end of a joke to you to
see ’em tossing up this sort of ‘tosh.’ And their fielding, too. Just
look at the wicket-keeper; why will he keep snapping ’em, instead of
waiting and taking ’em gently, like McGregor? There, that’s Halliday’s
fifty; I know he’ll get his hundred. But don’t cheer, please. Look at
the luck he’s had. It’s too bad of that wretched Toddles!”

Poor Miss Grace was almost tearful when her mind reverted to that
catastrophe. There was undoubtedly a rod in pickle for the hapless
Elphinstone.

“Ninety up. Really this is too bad!” cried she. “Charlie’s going off
now; had a pretty long spell, too. But they’ve only got thirty-one off
him.”

“Fine bowler, isn’t he?” I said, trying to pour oil on the troubled
waters; “but he’s had no luck this morning. Grand built chap as well.”

“Could do with a bit more head though,” said his censorious sister,
who seemed so severe a critic that it struck me that it was a pity the
Athenæum did not know about her. She would have given the sprouting
novelists and spring poets some talkings-to!

Runs were coming now with exhilarating frequency. The Captain was
beginning to score all round the wicket, off anything they liked to
send him. There was no more dangerous or resourceful bat in England
when once he got his eye in. The Ancient, too, was moving steadily in
the direction of his fifty. It would be idle to insist that he had
a pleasing style; indeed, he did not appear to have a style of any
kind. He had no physique, and you might watch him get a hundred, and
then wonder how he’d got them, as he hadn’t a single stroke worthy
of the name. But there was no man on the side who got runs with such
striking regularity; and when the meteors and comets had appeared
and disappeared, this ordinary fixed star was still at the wickets,
cocking ’em under his leg for two and sneaking short ones. From time
immemorial he had done the same. He had played oftener in Little
Clumpton _v._ Hickory than any of the giants of the past, and with
such an honourable distinction that the aggregate of his runs greatly
excelled that of anybody else. How far back in antiquity the Ancient
had first enjoyed his being, history never could determine. In the
Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory of twenty years ago, when the Ancient
made 64 not out, and pulled the match out of the fire, tradition said
that he looked even older than he looked to-day; and his manner was so
perennially youthful, too, that it was not until he took his cap off,
that one would have guessed he was a patriarch. Men might come and men
might go, but he went on for ever.

“Hundred and ten up,” called Miss Grace.

“How many’s Oldknow got?” the Optimist inquired.

“Why, he’s actually got thirty-three!” she said, in a startled tone.
“How _has_ he got them? I’m waiting to see him make a decent stroke.
But he don’t edge ’em, and he don’t fluke ’em, and he don’t give
chances, and he don’t look as though they’ll bowl him in a year.
Thirty-three? Isn’t it marvellous? He can’t bat a bit, though, can he?”

“Oh no, not a bit,” said I; “at least, that’s what everybody says.
No one ever thinks anything of Oldknow’s batting, but if there’s
runs to be got Oldknow always considers it his duty to get ’em. For
the last ten years his average for Little Clumpton has panned out at
forty-six, and since he gets steadily better as his hair gets whiter,
by the middle of next century he will have worked it up to something
over sixty. He’ll still be going in first wicket down and coming out
last but one. He won’t go in first, a place for which Nature certainly
designed him, as he abhors ostentation of any kind. That is why he so
carefully refrains from making strokes that are at all likely to appeal
to the eye of the multitude. There, he’s popped one under his leg for
another two.”

“Isn’t it perfectly atrocious?” said Miss Grace indignantly. “Why
_does_ he do it?”

“To bring his score up to thirty-five,” said the Optimist, “without the
crowd suspecting that he’s got so many. If they were to applaud him,
they’d put him off his game.”

“I wish they would, then,” said Miss Grace cruelly. “Why don’t somebody
bowl him? the little horror! There, did you see him snick that one away
for another single? That makes him thirty-six. It’s positively wicked
of him. I wonder how a silly point would affect him?”

“Every low dodge of that kind has been tried and found wanting years
ago,” said the Optimist.

Miss Grace grew pensive for a moment.

“I have it!” she cried. “I’ll tell Charlie, if he’s still in at lunch,
to go on again at the top end, and pitch short and bump ’em. If Charlie
hit him over the heart about four times, that might give him pause,
don’t you think?”

“I doubt it,” said I; “unless Charlie happens to be a Maxim gun.”



CHAPTER VIII

A Cricket Lunch


WHEN the bell rang for luncheon at half-past one, the score-sheet was
pretty reading:--

  FIRST INNINGS OF LITTLE CLUMPTON.

  H. J. Halliday, not out                       98
  R. C. Dimsdale, lbw b T. S. M. Trentham        7
  J. F. S. Oldknow, not out                     46
          Extras                                14
                                              ----
                Total for 1 wicket             165

As the players came trooping in from the field, pangs of sadness
overtook both the Optimist and me, for we knew that for the present our
right good time was at an end. We were condemned to go and lunch in
the stuffy marquee, among the wasps and bad speeches. But I had failed
to allow for the particular talent of the Optimist. He is a man who is
certain to make his mark in diplomacy one day. His eye had observed a
pretty substantial hamper on the roof of the coach.

“Pity us, Grace,” said he appealingly, as we prepared to descend.
“We’ve got to spend the next hour in that ‘Inferno,’ fishing flies out
of the salad and ‘hearing, hearing’ the Earl’s annual, ‘Gentlemen, I
can assure you that this auspicious occasion is one of the proudest
moments of my--er--er--life.’ Pity us, Grace!”

“I do, old chap,” said Grace, very earnestly. “But you needn’t, you
know. That is, if you can stand sandwiches and ginger beer. There’s
lots here, in the hamper. Oh! and I think there’s a bottle of fizz.”

“It’s really too good of you,” said the Optimist. But Miss Grace was
so prompt in her attempt to pull forth the hamper in question from
under the seat that our thanks, scruples, and retreat were all alike
submerged in the assistance we felt bound to lend her.

“What a weight it is!” said I. “There must be enough for both teams
here.”

“I believe in being prepared for emergencies,” said she. “Feed ’em, I
say. A man that can’t eat’s no good for cricket. And there’s certain to
be some of the boys along presently. Hullo! here’s Charlie, for one.
Don’t he look awfully sorry for himself, poor old chap! That’s ’cause
he’s got no wickets. Buck up, Charlie!”

The best bowler in England climbed up on to the roof.

“Now then, Grace,” said he briskly. “Keep ’em from that fizz. Two of
your beef-slabs round, mind, before that’s touched. That’s for dessert.
Brightside, I should recommend you to stick to Caley. I’m certain to
bowl you neck and heels if you don’t.”

“Same as you’ve been serving ’em this morning,” said Miss Grace.

“Don’t be rude, Grace,” said he. “But give me a sandwich. Oh, I say,
and do you see which fizz you’ve brought? Whew! won’t there be a row!
You know that the Guv’nor particularly said it was not to be touched.”

“Well, Charlie, now,” said his sister, “do you think I’d bring that
sugary stuff to give to pretty nearly a county team?--one of ’em going
out with Stoddy, too. But the Guv.’s an awful good sort, and I’m sure
he’ll see it in a proper light when I explain to him that I couldn’t
possibly give that horrid what-do-you-call-it to a team like we’ve got
to-day. Besides, he’d only have let the Bishop and the Rural Dean have
had it. I’ll take good care they don’t get it, though. Let ’em stick
to their port. Never saw such a pair of old muffs in my life. ’Don’t
know a bat from a bagpipe!” Then, as she distributed a napkinful of
the solidest beef sandwiches I ever saw, she continued with manifest
perplexity: “Do you know that I can never understand on what principle
they go on in the Church to get their preferment. There’s Toddles, now.
Look at Toddles. ’Got his Blue, plays for Kent and the Gentlemen, and
his cutting’s simply marvellous, and yet he’s just a common curate.
And then there’s my old Guv’nor. ’Don’t want to boast, but my old
Guv’nor’s---- Well, look what Lillywhite says about him. He’d play the
whole Dean and Chapter left hand with a toothpick, and yet _he_ don’t
wear gaiters. ’Can’t reckon it up at all. Don’t it seem ridiculous?
’specially when you come to think of the set of old duffers who do.”

“Grace, don’t be libellous,” said the best bowler in England, with
a face of keen enjoyment. “Drop your jaw and look sharp with those
glasses.”

“May I participate in this pleasant function?” said a meek voice. The
little parson clambered on to the roof and smiled into our midst.

“Toddles!” cried Miss Grace, with a flashing eye. “How dare you! Don’t
you show your face here, you--you--you little curate! Aren’t you
thoroughly ashamed?”

“My dear Grace, I have no words in which to express my penitence,” said
the little parson, in a broken tone; but as he looked at us his face
had such a twinkle in it that I’m sure he must have been a master of
deceit.

“Oh, you haven’t!” said Miss Grace scornfully. “Well, Toddles, it’s
lucky for you that you made that score against Notts yesterday. One
can’t say exactly what’s in one’s mind to a man who’s just made a score
like that. Say you’re sorry, Toddles, and I’ll forgive you.”

“Oh, Grace! how magnanimous you are!” cried the little parson, in
throbbing accents. “I can assure you that time only will assuage my
sorrow!”

“If time don’t, stone-ginger will, and that’s a cert.,” said the
irreverent Charlie. “Try one, old man”; and the best bowler in England
poured out a Caley for the erring one.

The little parson tossed it off, and fell upon a massive sandwich with
a vigour that was in disproportion to his inches.

It was one of the liveliest cricket lunches at which I ever assisted;
and I think the heartiest. Miss Grace’s sandwiches had certainly been
designed for very punishing batsmen and terrific fast bowlers. Two
great slices of bread with a succulent chunk of beef between went to
the making of them. He who ate one had partaken of no inconsiderable
meal; he who ate two must have had an appetite of which any man ought
to have been proud. But Miss Grace herself set us all a noble example.
She fell on one of these tremendous slabs with the courage of a lion,
and had a big stone-ginger all to herself.

“Charlie,” said the little parson, “we’d better put Grace on at the top
end after lunch. She seems in great form.”

“’Wish you would,” said Grace wistfully. “I’d shift ’em. ’Just feel
like it. Pass the mustard, Mr. Dimsdale. Thanks aw’fly. Cheery, help
yourself. ’Won’t wait to be invited, will you? You’ll find some apples
underneath. Now then, Toddles, buck up! You’re not in church. Ham or
beef? ’Nother beer for Charlie.”

“If we’d only got some gin, it would improve it,” sighed England’s best
bowler.

“Mr. Dimsdale, if you’ll look in the left-hand corner, right down at
the bottom,” said Miss Grace, “you’ll find a bottle. Charlie, how dare
you! Don’t you touch that fizz. Mr. Dimsdale, I repose _implicit_
confidence in you.”

“Grace,” said the best bowler in England, brandishing the gin bottle,
“you’re a trump!”

“Always was,” said Miss Grace. “But it’s not until Middlesex and Kent
get beastly, jolly hungry that they think it worth their while to talk
about it.”

“Oh, you’ve got your points,” said her brother. “You do know how to
feed us. ’Seem to know exactly what we like. Your feeding’s lovely.
Look at these sandwiches; they’re a dream.”

“Two of ’em ’d be a nightmare,” said the little parson.

“For a man your size, perhaps,” Miss Grace said. “Ought to have brought
a few of those anchovy things for you. And, Toddles, I forbid you to
have gin. Sure to get into your head, you know, and then you’d miss
another catch.”

“Here, no-ball! That’s a chuck!” cried Charlie. “I’ll have Jim Phillips
to you, Grace. You don’t give the poor chap a chance.”

“Charlie, if you’re rude you’ll get no fizz.”

Miss Grace foraged in the hamper and produced two bottles of that giddy
liquid. She promptly began to unwire them, too. Disdaining our earnest
and repeated offers to withdraw the corks, she pulled them out herself
with considerable ease and neatness, saying,--

“’Daren’t trust you men with this. I’ll measure it myself, then all
of us will get a share. Hands down, Charlie. Oh, yes, I know being a
bowler’s beastly thirsty; thank you so much for reminding me. Look
alive, Mr. Dimsdale, with those glasses. You’ll find ’em wrapped up in
the _Sporting Life_.”

“She means _The Woman at Home_, in Annie S. Swan’s grand new serial,”
said the little parson, with something that bore a perilous resemblance
to a common wink.

“Go on, pile it up!” The voice of Miss Grace was more indignant than
the hissing of the fizz. “And, Toddles, I saw you. Oh, you naughty
little curate. You’d better be careful, Toddles, or I won’t work that
sweater for you. Pass that to Cheery. Don’t drink it yet. I’ve got to
propose a toast.”

When we were all furnished with a means to honour it, our hostess
insisted on our standing up along with her, whereon she held the glass
aloft, and cried in a voice pregnant with emotion:

“Here’s luck to good old Stoddy in the autumn!”

We pledged him with great fervour.

“I say, you men,” said Grace. “That went well, didn’t it? And I say,
isn’t this stuff just prime. My old guv’nor knows a thing or two. And
what price the Bishop and the Rural Dean? It’s positive extravagance
in my old guv’nor to lavish it on those old jossers. But they look
like being left, eh? Next time they’ll get the other sort, and that’ll
sour their ‘outlook,’ and their preaching won’t be quite so full of
hope. But we’d better finish it now it’s here. Fill up, and we’ll drink
another.”

The second was: “Here’s luck to good old Archie of that ilk!”

This was drunk with acclamation. And the champagne still continuing to
hold out, nothing would satisfy the enthusiasm of Miss Grace but that
a third should be proposed. It was evidently pretty near her heart, for
her colour rose, her eyes sparkled, and her lips began to tremble.

“Here’s to dear old Charlie, and may Stoddy have the sense to take him
too. And it’s a great big shame he’s not been yet invited!”

Charlie having been pushed down into an attitude of repose by main
force, we drank this more heartily than ever. And the feeling provoked
by the peculiar circumstances of the case was so extreme, that when
the gallant little parson broke out into a rousing cheer that did an
infinite amount of credit to so small a man, the rest of us supported
him in such a stentorian fashion that we attracted the attention of the
general public.

“Stow that rot!” exclaimed the best bowler in England, whose
discomposure was rather painful. “Confound you, Grace, what have you
got to play the giddy goat like this for!”

“Speech! speech!” cried Miss Grace, hugely delighted at the condition
to which she had reduced him. The great bowler grew more embarrassed
than ever.

“Now then, Charlie, buck up,” said his sister. “Don’t keep us waiting.
We can’t get on with the serious business, the sandwiches and so forth,
until you’ve acknowledged the honour that we’ve done you. Now then,
let’s see you do the thing in style. Like you used to do it at the
Union, you know. What price, old Charlie, at the Union?”

“Oh, this is all beastly bally rot,” exclaimed the great bowler most
miserably red. “Dimsdale, if you don’t stop grinning, you’ll be sorry.
Grace, I’ll get level with _you_, take _my_ word. I’ll drop every bally
catch that comes, and talk about misfielding and the overthrows--I’ll
give _you_ beans!”

Miss Grace, in her capacity as president of the feast, hammered the
hamper top with an empty stone-ginger beer bottle in a very resolute
manner, and said:

“Now then, Charlie, are you going to buck up and begin? Something in
the Earl’s style, don’t you know. ‘Unaccustomed as I am to public
speaking’ sort of thing. You know, something with a bit of class about
it, and not so much of your awfully beastly bally. Not good form at all
you know, Charlie. Quite third rate, don’t you know. Now then, I’ve
given you a friendly lead. Let’s see you stand up like a man, and say,
‘Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am----’ Well, why don’t
you go on?”

“Just you shut your face, Grace, and pass me a ham sandwich, and let’s
have the mustard this way. You’d better drop your rotting, Grace, it
really isn’t funny,” said the poor bowler wriggling dismally.

“_You’re_ pretty humorous though,” said his sister cruelly. “If you’ll
be good enough to look as funny as that till I find my kodak. I’ll take
a snapshot of you. You would send up the circulation of the _Windsor
Magazine_. ‘Eminent cricketer replying to the toast of his health.’
What, ho!”

If a wasp had not settled itself on the dazzling white collar of poor
Charlie’s persecutor and demanded extremely discreet conduct on the
part of Miss Grace whilst three men gallantly but cautiously arranged
its capture and decease, it is possible that the great bowler’s bad
time would have continued longer than it did. Miss Grace Trentham,
having rather severely handled a famous exponent of the game, turned
her attention to one of even greater eminence. Stoddart’s blindness in
omitting to ask Charlie to make the trip to Australia was trenchantly
reviewed.

“If Stoddy don’t take Charlie,” Miss Grace said with weighty
deliberation, “Stoddy’ll be wrong. Charlie’s worth three Jack Hearnes
this season, and Mold and Richardson aren’t in it. ’Fact it’s my
’pinion that if Charlie had only got a bit more intellect, and hadn’t
such a gift for drinking things, he’d be another Spoff.”

“Go on, Grace, keep at it,” murmured the gentleman in question with a
most pathetic air of resignation. “That’s the fizz. Girls and champagne
as usual. To watch the fluent way they lip it, you’d think it was only
milk. But it gets there just the same. Go on, Grace; let’s hear what
else it’s got to say.”

“Charlie, you’re a coarse person,” said his sister. “You had better
take your hat off to let the sun expurgate your ideas a bit.”

“Grace,” said the little parson, “you’re a regular Jessop when it comes
to hitting. That’s six.”

“Do you believe in dreams, Mr. Dimsdale?” said Miss Grace suddenly.

“Well, I was born in the West country, so I suppose I’m obliged to,”
said I.

“Well, I dreamt last night but one,” said she, “that a wire came from
town to Charlie, saying, ‘Will you complete team? Name inadvertently
omitted. Stoddart.’”

A roar of laughter considerably interfered with Miss Grace’s narrative.

“Grace, if you keep playing this game,” said the best bowler
in England, fighting for his breath, “I shall die young. Name
inadvertently omitted’s rather good.”

“Certain it has been,” said Miss Grace with deep conviction. “Stoddy
would never be such a blind owl as to leave you out on purpose,
Charlie. I’ve a very high opinion of Stoddy.”

“Stoddy will be pleased,” piped the little parson.

“If that’s meant for sarcasm, Toddles,” said Miss Grace, “you’d better
save it for your fielding. It needs it more than I do.”

“Put her down another six,” said Charlie. “She’s serving all the
bowling alike. She is in a punishing mood. Toddles, if you’ll take my
tip, you’ll go off next over.”

“Don’t take much to flog the stuff _you’ve_ been rolling up this
morning, anyhow,” said Miss Grace truculently. “But I’ve been on
the point of writing to Stoddy once or twice to tell him that he’s
forgotten to invite you, Charlie.”

“Good God, what the, the----!” spluttered the horrified Charlie very
incoherently indeed. The bare possibility of such an unheard of
proceeding half paralysed the poor bowler. His clerical friend, who had
acquired in some mysterious manner a laugh that began in his boots and
rose in Rabelaisian moments as high as his knee-joints, nearly tumbled
off the coach in wrestling with it.

“I would do it if I thought I would,” said Miss Grace stoutly, and the
half-perplexed solemnity of her countenance made three of us howl with
joy; the fourth, however, looked as though he would never smile again.

“You needn’t tell us that, we know it,” moaned the poor bowler. “That’s
why you’re such a source of comfort to us.”

“Toddles,” said Miss Grace, addressing herself to the Rev. Mr.
Elphinstone, who was engaged in shinning the Optimist on the off-chance
that the Optimist’s mind might be invaded by some much-needed
solemnity, “Toddles, your behaviour is positively low. But Charlie,
now, don’t you think, as Stoddy must have overlooked you, it would be
doing the right thing by him to write and tell him so before it is
too late? No good for him to know it, would it, when Sid Gregory and
Clem Hill and that lot are knocking the cover off the ball as they did
before?”

“Go on, go on,” said the great bowler; “it sounds like sacred music.”

“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “I’m not going to let England lose the
rubber this time, if I can help it. And they will, that’s a cert.,
if you’re not there, Charlie, to rattle their timber. They can play
everybody else as easily as they’d play that stuff o’ Toddles’s.”

“Cheek,” said the reverend patentee of “that stuff o’ Toddles’s,”
employing the power of speech with evident difficulty, “awful cheek.”

“Always was you know, Toddles, your bowling,” said Miss Grace
indulgently. “But we won’t go into that now. What ought I to say to
Stoddy when I write him? Would he think it too familiar if I began, ‘My
dear Mr. Stoddart,’ or ought it to be ‘Dear Sir’? Don’t quite know how
to start it, don’t you know. You see Stoddy’s not exactly an ordinary
person, don’t you see. The Guv’nor says great men are so touchy.”

Miss Grace was evidently embarrassed. So were some others. The little
parson’s laughter rumbled from his boots until one wondered how his
small eights could hold so much. As for the unhappy Charlie, he was so
completely demoralised that after saying, “Why don’t some of you men
give her another stone-ginger to keep her quiet?” he proceeded to fill
an immense tumbler with neat gin for that purpose, under the impression
that he was pouring out ginger beer.

When at last things had sorted themselves out a bit, during which
process Miss Grace, the innocent cause of this disorder, regarded us
all with unaffected gravity, the little parson said, with an expression
of really concentrated elfishness: “But you know, you men, there’s a
wonderful amount of truth in what Grace says. If Stoddy really has
forgotten Charlie, and if she reminds him of the fact, she will be
doing a service to her country, won’t she?”

“By Jove, she will,” chorused the Optimist and I.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll write to Stoddy then,” said
Grace.

And she looked as though she meant to do it too.

The poor bowler had got about as much as he could bear. I think I never
saw a grown man look more completely overborne. He began doggedly to
munch another sandwich, and nearly choked himself by trying to whistle
a jaunty music hall ditty expressive of heart-easing mirth with his
mouth full. When he spoke, his voice was so subdued and melancholious
that, as Miss Grace said, it reminded her of Toddles reading the
marriage service.

“She’ll do it,” he said. “Rather a good joke for me, eh? He’s sure
to show it to McGregor and O’Brien and that lot. They’ll simply die.
Shan’t be able to show my face up at Lord’s for years. Awfully nice for
me, eh?”

“Well,” Miss Grace said, “I hope Stoddy does show it to McGregor
and O’Brien and that lot. They’ll tell him what a fool he’s been to
overlook you, Charlie.”

“She means it,” said I, to console him.

“I should rather think she does,” said he. “If she once gets a giddy
idea into that gaudy feminine head of hers, there’s nothing can shift
it. She’s a downright terror. And, I should like to know what cove it
was that said women had no sense o’ humour. Why they’re that darned
funny they ought to be put in a circus.”

“Awful good sort Grace is though, when you get to know her,” said the
little parson, most caressingly, “and no end of a patriot as well.
She sinks all private and domestic matters when the welfare of her
country is concerned. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if, when this leaks
out, they don’t get up a shilling testimonial to her in the _Daily
Telegraph_.”

“’Nother beer for Toddles,” said the recipient of this flattery, “and
Toddles, you can have some gin in it, if you like.”

Mercifully enough for her luckless brother Charlie, Miss Grace here
remembered that she was hostess, and suspended the conversation to a
more convenient season while she ministered to our wants. We all fell
again in earnest to our interrupted meal; but I’m sure that the best
bowler in England was so depressed throughout his entire being, that he
couldn’t possibly have enjoyed his.

There was a delicious sense of out-of-doors and the open air as we
sat up here under the genial sun of summer. The band was playing now,
and the smart mob from the various carriages and the ladies’ tent was
parading the bright green lawn prior to the resumption of the game. The
crowd was beginning to re-assemble round the ring. And here and there
we could observe from our exalted situation, various of the players
making a tour of the ground, in their “blancoed” boots and brilliant
blazers, pretty generally accompanied too by graceful persons in straw
hats and white piqué. Some of these graceful persons happened to be
“dressed,” it is true, but their costumes bid the pen pause, as nothing
less than a fashion journal could describe them.

“I think girls look jolly nice and cool all in white,” said Charlie.
“None of your brown holland for me, thank you. Aren’t fond o’ that
ruffly, crumply sort o’ stuff, are you Toddles?”

“No,” said the cruel Toddles. “And to my unsophisticated mind plain
ribands look more chaste than those staring Zingari ties and things
they crib from their male relations.”

But Miss Grace was far too occupied in attacking her mighty second
sandwich, and insisting on her guests adventuring a third, holding that
great virtues were resident therein, to heed this brilliant persiflage.
Besides, the injustice was too palpable. For I’m certain that had Grace
chosen to wear a potato sack, with a ribbon of the Zingari black, red
and yellow round the neck of it, she would have made an effect all
poetry and sunshine and been a positive delight. The brown holland
was quite plain and simple, without one suspicion of a flounce; but
its wearer had invested it with all the glamours of a love scene out
of Meredith. Hers was a natural genius of beauty for which she was
not all responsible. Without the slightest art or consideration, it
looked out of her eyes. She must have known all about it, being a girl.
Nevertheless she was not in the least uplifted by it, and would have
much preferred to play for Middlesex than to be the belle of a London
season.

When at last the formal luncheon was at an end, and the Earl’s speech
had been duly delivered for the benefit of the _Little Clumpton
Advertiser_, two persons of light and leading were observed to be
bearing down upon our drag. One was the honourable and reverend parent
of Miss Grace; the other was the Earl himself. It was good to notice
the celerity with which our hostess slipped the empty champagne
bottles, bearing their tell-tale labels, back into the hamper at the
first approach of these dignitaries.

“Mum’s the word, you know,” said she, “if the Guv wants to know what
we’ve had to drink. His natural benevolence sometimes leads him to ask
lots o’ questions that he oughtn’t to.”

As soon as the new comers halted immediately beneath us, Miss Grace
greeted them in the hearty fashion that was her wont.

“Hullo, father! had a good lunch? Hullo, Dicky! Got your speech off all
comfy, or did you break down in the middle, as you usually do?”

“A bit nearer the end this time,” said the Earl.

“Anyhow,” said Miss Grace, “I hope you didn’t shove in your usual
reference to Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch and that crowd. I think
everybody’s getting about sick of ’em. What with the Old Man and Ranji
and Andrew Lang, they’re getting stale. You take my advice, Dicky,
and give ’em a rest. Everybody’ll be so grateful, and as it’ll make
your peroration shorter by about ten minutes, you can bet that their
gratitude will be pretty genuine.”

“Clean out of the ground again,” cried England’s best bowler in great
delight. “’Nother six. She keeps on lifting ’em. Charlie Thornton isn’t
in it. Dick, you take my advice, and clear out o’ this while you’re
well.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” said the poor Earl appealingly.

“’Feel like it,” said Miss Grace. “And so would you, Dicky, had
you been sitting up here all the jolly morning putting down Little
Clumpton’s runs, watching Halliday batting like an angel, and Toddles
dropping him, and ordinary club men smacking Charlie’s best for fours.
165 for one; isn’t it disgraceful? However, you had better come up
here, Dicky, and I’ll give you an apple to keep you good.”

“Can’t, much as I regret it,” said the Earl. “’Got my social duties to
attend to.”

“A useful yarn,” said Miss Grace.

“And, Laura,” said the deep voice of Miss Grace’s parent, “I should
like you to come down and attend to yours. There’s all the county here,
and you’ve not even acknowledged them yet.”

“’Haven’t seen one of ’em except in the distance,” said his ingenuous
daughter.

“You are scarcely likely to, if you carefully keep out of their way,”
said the Rector.

“Seems to be a lot o’ truth in that,” said Miss Grace, wagging her head
very thoughtfully. “Funny I didn’t think of that before. But I tell you
what, pater: if they ask you where I am, tell ’em I’ve got an old frock
on, and that I’m afraid to face the music. It’ll please ’em awfully,
and it won’t hurt me. See!”

By the anxious expression on the old gentleman’s face it was evident
that this proposal was not altogether in accordance with his ideas. He
was deeply desirous of bringing his daughter round to his own point
of view, yet didn’t know how. It was clearly a case for a mamma to
exercise her prerogative, as a mere father is not made of stern enough
stuff to thwart a daughter in the enjoyment of her own way. Miss Grace,
however, was by no means insensible to her parent’s deeply solicitous
look.

“All right, father, I’ll come,” she said. Then, turning round to us,
added in an apologetic undertone, “My old guv’nor’s such an awful good
sort, don’t you see, that when he looks like that, I can’t resist him.
But I sha’n’t stop long. Can’t stand a set o’ women inquiring whether I
take any interest in cricket, and can I tell ’em what a maiden is, and
what are those funny things that some o’ the men have got strapped on
their legs? I shall cut early. And oh! I say, Cheery, will you do the
scoring while I’m gone? ’Know how to take the analysis, don’t you? In
red ink, mind. Here you are. Oh! and if you observe any of those public
school cubs prowling round, don’t let ’em come up. Keep ’em down with
your boot. Bye, bye; back soon!”

Miss Grace then departed to do the right thing by her friends, just as
the bell rang for the clearance of the ground. And as she walked, with
the Earl on one side of her and her parent on the other, she looked
not unlike a deserter being reluctantly led back in custody to her
regiment.



CHAPTER IX

Record Breaking


“POOR old Grace!” said the little parson. “Quite a martyr to public
duty, isn’t she? I didn’t think she’d go.”

“And she wouldn’t, that’s a moral,” said her brother, “had it been
anybody but the Guv. Her consideration for the Guv is something
beautiful. ’Wish she’d extend it to some other members of her family.”

“There’s none of ’em can grumble,” said the little parson warmly.
“She’s a mother to the lot. ’Gives you milk gruel when you’re sick.
’Won’t have you stay out late. ’Sends you in strict training before the
Gentlemen and Players. ’Always up at Lords to give you the privilege
of her advice. ’Coaches the lot of you like a pro. ’Dots your I’s
and crosses your T’s for you, and puts your eyes and limbs together
generally. Surely it isn’t reasonable to expect more from a sister; but
some men want so thundering much. Tell you what, my boy, if there’d
been no Grace to restrict your spiritual needs and minister to your
temporal, Cambridge hadn’t cut up Oxford as they did, and Middlesex
hadn’t been champion county. Grace is a trump!”

The little parson’s heat was such that he was compelled to wipe his
forehead.

“Oh, I don’t deny that Grace has her points,” said that young person’s
brother.

“And no end of a fine girl is Grace,” said the little parson, quite at
the mercy of his theme. “Real A 1, and looks it. And there’s nobody to
deny it either.”

“’Never could see it myself,” drawled Charlie, who in his fraternal
capacity was of course at no pains to conceal his boredom. “’Can’t see
where her looks come in at all.”

“If she were some other fellow’s sister, it’s likely that you might,”
said I.

Perhaps it was that my tone conveyed more than I was aware of, for the
great bowler looked at me with a shrewdly humorous countenance that
rather reminded me of Robert Abel’s.

“Hullo, Toddles!” he observed. “What price that? ’Nother victim. I’m
getting to recognise the symptoms straight away. But, Dimsdale, you be
advised. The Rectory positively reeks of slaughtered innocence. Two
refused last week. Now, don’t you come and play the goat.”

“Wonder who it will be in the end?” asked the poor dear Optimist to
cover my retreat. But his own effort was a perfect masterpiece of
self-repression.

“Perhaps the noble Earl,” said the little parson. “He’s been right over
his ears this two years. Poor old Dick!”

“No blooming fear!” said Miss Grace’s brother, with a profound
conviction that both delighted and depressed the poor old Optimist and
the miserable me. “Dick’s a rank outsider. ’Hasn’t a thousand-to-one
chance. Last time he tried it on he sank so low as to tell her what his
income was. ‘Now, look here, Dick,’ said she, ‘I don’t care a straw
about your income; what’s your batting average?’ Fact! Told it to the
’Varsity, and they put it in _The Granta_. And the joke is, that Dick
is the most horrible muff you ever saw. ’Couldn’t get a run to save his
life. Well, he sent for Attewell and Brockwell to coach him all the
spring. But he’s not yet at the top of the first-class averages.”

“Well, _who_ will it be?” I asked recklessly.

“Ask another,” said Charlie, “for I’m hanged if I know. Ranji in his
best year might have had a look in, and I think she’d take the Old Man
even now. Jacker, and Stoddy, and Archie McLaren, and that crush, all
just miss it.”

“All just miss it?” I said weakly.

“All just miss it,” said Charlie magisterially. “If Sammy Woods’s heart
had stood the strain, his bowling might have put him in the running,
because she says that, whereas batsmen are a common growth, bowlers
come from heaven.”

As the best bowler in England quoted this opinion, the twinkle in his
eye was marvellous.

“But Jack Mason and Charlie Fry have been going pretty strong of late,”
said the little parson.

“They’ll have to be regular Sandows before they’ll fill her eye,” said
Grace’s brother, “she’s that mighty hypercritical. At least, that’s
what a literary Johnny called her. He kept rolling Greek up to her, and
comparing her to Nausicaa. She asked him whether Nausicaa was a batsman
or a bowler, as she knew for a fact that his name was not in Wisden.
But when the silly owl began to simplify himself, he wished he hadn’t
spoke. She knocked three fours and two sixes off him--all in one over.
By crum! didn’t she make hay! As for Jack Mason, he’s got a blind sort
o’ shove behind point off a rising ball that she don’t approve of,
whilst Charlie Fry’s bowling action is so darned ugly that I don’t much
fancy _him_.”

“Second bell,” said the little parson. “We’d better cut.”

“Yes, curse it,” said the great bowler with a groan. “’Got to be
rolling ’em up all the afternoon at ninety in the shade. Wicket
concrete, and two men going as they please. Bowlers _have_ to come from
heaven, I say, or they’d simply kick. ’Wants a blooming archangel to be
a bowler. Poor devils! What _are_ the sins of their fathers that some
men should be born bowlers?”

“Evolution teaches us,” said the little parson with resonant solemnity,
“that when a man’s forbears have been for generations in the habit of
fielding really bad, dropping catches, slow pick-up, stopping ’em with
their boot, wild returns, fumbling, failing to back up, real downright
infernal blood-coloured idleness, and so forth--that poor bloke is
likely to be born a bowler. Nature will avenge itself, you know.”

“’Must have been several Keys and Martin Hawkes in our family, then,
at one time or another,” said Charlie. Here however a ray of hope came
to him. “Of course,” said he, “your men’ll declare when they get about
three hundred.”

“Well, what would you do,” said I, “if you’d not got a ha’porth o’
bowling, against a batting side like Hickory’s?”

“Cert’nly declare,” said the bowler with wonderful conviction. “Great
folly if you don’t. Always the unexpected that happens at cricket,
don’t you know. ’Might absolutely scuttle us as our men’ll be tired as
the Ten blooming Tribes, and pretty well as sick.”

“Well,” said I, “I daresay we shall declare--at half-past six.”

As the umpires were already out, there was no time left in which the
case might be considered in all its aspects. It was a memorable sight
when Hickory took the field two minutes later. The assembly was still
greater than before. Little Clumpton, always warm favourites, since
they relied on purely local men, had had the might of their achievement
noised abroad. 165 for one wicket against Hickory’s formidable side was
a morning’s work that had sent the majority of those present into the
seventh heaven of enthusiasm.

Would Halliday get his hundred? Would Oldknow get his fifty? The cheers
that greeted these heroes when they came out of the pavilion was
something to cherish in the memory. They marched to the crease with
stately unconcern. Their apparent unconsciousness of the clamour they
had excited bordered on the sublime.

They began with extreme caution. The first few overs were a repetition
of their morning’s methods. There was no hurry for runs. The Ancient
cocked one under his leg for two, and the Captain stole a single. This
was the sum total of their scoring during the first ten minutes. Was
Halliday never going to get his hundred? He still required one. The
fielding was so keen and the bowling so straight that there still
seemed an element of uncertainty about it. This assumed a palpable
shape a moment later, when every man in the slips, point, the bowler,
the wicket-keeper, and heaven knows who besides, yelled at the pitch of
their lungs.

“How’s that?”

One could almost hear the great heart of the crowd beating through
the terribly portentous silence, that so respectfully awaited the
umpire’s verdict. The Optimist and I bent forward in our eagerness.
Could it be that Halliday was to have the cup dashed from his lips in
this manner? We despondently remembered that it was nine years since
a man had scored a century for Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Suddenly
the wicket-keeper threw down the ball with an impatient gesture. The
crisis was passed. Halliday was given in. He cut Charlie’s next ball
like a knife to the boundary. The scene that ensued is not to be
described. Veterans cheered; strong men adjourned for beer. The best
bowler in England to be collared to this tune! Little Clumpton 192 for
1. Halliday, not out, 103. And that this moment might be furnished with
every joy on which the great British Public dotes, a small boy in the
exuberance of the hour, thought well to fall from a tall tree wherein
he was perched, and delighted the populace by showing it how easily he
could break his collar-bone.

By cocking T. S. M. under his leg for another two, the Ancient
completed his fifty in the following over. Runs were beginning to come
as they pleased. Each batsman had satisfied his dreams. He could now
afford to take liberties and play to the crowd a bit. The Captain did;
the Ancient didn’t. It sums up the essential difference between the
two. The Captain began to talk to T. S. M. He leapt out and hit him
out of the ground for six. T. S. M. immediately went off, obedient,
doubtless, to a peremptory command that appeared to proceed from the
recesses of the ladies’ tent.

H. C., the lion-hearted, still continued to hurl them down at his best
pace. But it was manifestly not his day. The Captain, with his score at
112, was palpably missed at the wicket. Charlie also beat the Ancient
twice with successive balls, and occasionally knocked at that little
batsman’s ribs, no doubt to remind him that he was becoming a nuisance.
The Ancient, however, merely drew a long breath to assure himself that
it was not a compound fracture, blinked reflectively, took a new guard,
and continued as before. Two hundred went up, and still no separation.
Matters were growing ominous. Men were heard to inquire what was the
record score in Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, by whom was it made, and
when? It appeared that Hickory’s 503 for nine, in the pre-declaration
days of 1887, held it. Would it be eclipsed? Runs still came at their
own sweet will. With his score at 133, Halliday was missed off Charlie
for the second time by the unhappy wicket-keeper. The crowd grew
vigorous in its observations, and began to applaud the poor beggar
every time he handled the ball. Whenever the British Public swarm, they
invariably bring their manners with them.

The appearance of the “telegraph” was fast becoming a thing of beauty.
Ten followed ten without the slightest hesitation. The bowling began
to exhibit signs of getting used up. Charlie, still wicketless, had
gone off, whilst that crowning glory of a good side, its fielding, was
not taking itself quite so seriously as it did earlier in the day. But
neither the Optimist nor I were, perhaps, as whole-hearted as we might
have been in our enthusiasm. Our thoughts would keep straying to Miss
Grace. Why had we not been born county cricketers? It was bitterness
for me to reflect that I was already out for seven, and that my own
impetuosity had caused me to forfeit a chance for which so many sighed
in vain. As for the Optimist, he was conscious of certain rather
pronounced weaknesses in his style, which he was too old now to correct.

“Perhaps she hasn’t seen you bat, though?” said I consolingly.

“She ain’t, that’s certain,” said he wearily; “and if I’m lucky, she
never will!”

Miss Grace was now returning. We saw the assured figure of that young
person, the perfection of finely curved and elegant strength, emerge
from the interior of the ladies’ tent. Two _very_ young men stepped out
after her. Miss Grace turned round quickly, and although what she said
was brief, it was apparently to the point, as the pair of them went
back again without any delay whatever.

As Miss Grace came along the confines of the boundary to rejoin us,
swinging her gloves as she walked, an act of self-denial denoted that
here was no ordinary girl. The bowler was in the act of delivering,
and she was compelled to cross the screen at his end. The ordinary
girl would have been quite unable to resist the fascination of passing
behind the bowler’s arm, and thereby delaying the game until she had
gone on her way rejoicing in her crime. Miss Grace, however impossible
it may actually seem, waited while the bowler delivered the ball, and
afterwards ran across the screen as hard as she could in order to be
well clear of his arm by the time he was ready to send down the next.
The Optimist saw this also, and is prepared, I understand, to affirm
it on oath in the presence of witnesses. And the pair of us will no
doubt one day persuade the authorities at Newnham to recognise the
pious character of her act by erecting a stained glass window to her
honourable memory, even at the risk of causing that home of the higher
learning to build a chapel in which to put it.

She was soon up beside us again, a pretty healthy-looking anger seeming
to emphasise her charms.

“267 for one, Grace,” said the scorer; “Halliday not out, 169. Oldknow,
not out, 72. Oh, and another four; that makes Halliday 173. 270 up,
boy.”

“Awfully obliged to you, old chap,” said Miss Grace politely, as she
took the score-book from the Optimist. Her self-control really was
remarkable, but then women do claim to have more of it than men.

“What sort of a time did they give you in there?” asked the Optimist.
He always had a considerable temerity of his own. A thorough-going
optimist needs it, of course.

“Pretty bad,” said Miss Grace, with a distinctly blasé air. “One girl
said that Charlie must have an awful lot of enthusiasm, ’cause he kept
running about as hard as he could just for fun, while everybody else
was looking at him. Oh, some of ’em have a very pretty wit, I can tell
you. But if Hickory’s idea of humour is 271 for one, I wish they’d try
to be a bit serious sometimes, ’cause in my idea that sort o’ fun’s not
funny at all.”

“’Tis for us, I think,” said I.

“Very low form of amusement,” said Grace judicially.

Here the game afforded us a new diversion. The dauntless Halliday, whom
good fortune had now rendered absolutely reckless, lashed out for all
he was worth at a ball much too short to drive. It went spinning up a
dizzy height midway between mid-off and cover-point, in which positions
the youthful T. S. M. and Carteret were fielding respectively.

“At last!” sighed poor Miss Grace.

She was just a little bit premature, however. Being between them, both
men immediately started for the catch; then each observing the other
coming, both stopped together and stood stock still, each politely
saying “Your ball!” at the same moment, whilst the ball in question
dropped harmlessly to earth. The great British Public rivalled Swift
for pungency that minute. Poor Miss Grace, however, grew positively
white.

“I shall give ’em up,” she said.

There was soon a new matter to absorb the attention of the speculative.
Would Halliday make 200? It was a feat that had still to be
accomplished in Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. But as this is an age of
record-breaking, it was quite expected of our captain that he should do
something to maintain the traditions of his generation. He rose to the
occasion. Hitting out, without favour and without fear, he soon set all
doubts at rest. A strong off-drive gave him his second century.

“Have a cigarette, Miss Trentham,” said I, passing her the case. She
was not a young person who gave one the impression of being greatly
troubled with “nerves”; but it was plain that 309 for one wicket had
thrown the few she had into a state of open mutiny.

“Don’t smoke,” Miss Grace said.

“Should rather have thought you would,” said I mischievously.

“No,” said she with great sobriety; “it’s a bad thing for condition.
Besides, I’ve four brothers to consider. And when they do get stale, I
don’t like ’em to say it’s my fault. I always try to do the straight
thing by ’em, and set ’em a good example.”

“They invariably follow it, of course?”

“Well, no,” said Miss Grace reluctantly, “not always. But you know,”
she added quickly, “they’re really pretty decent sorts when you get to
know their little ways. If you feed ’em well and fetch their slippers
for ’em, and you let ’em have breakfast when they like, and you don’t
lecture ’em too much, you can get ’em to do almost anything. And if
Archie and Charlie have got anything big on, they’re just as good as
gold. Hullo, Charlie’s going on again. Why don’t he go on permanently?”



CHAPTER X

The End of the Day


CHARLIE’S second ball was one of his best breakbacks. The Captain in
his carelessness played a bit outside it. Back went his off stick.
At last the great partnership was dissolved. 312 for two, last man,
204. 301 had been added for the wicket, which beat by 37 the record
partnership of Barclay and Perkins in 1882. Barclay’s 178 made on that
occasion, the previous individual best, was also superseded. As the
hero ran into the pavilion, the crowd simply rose at him.

The Pessimist succeeded. He was very correct, watchful, and
resourceful. Charlie smashed a yorker at him to begin with, but the
Pessimist had heard of such things before. It takes more than a common
yorker to discompose a county man. Presently the Ancient so far forgot
himself as to indulge in a drive for four.

“Has he got his fifty yet?” I asked.

“He’s made 98, the little horror!” said Grace indignantly. “I wonder if
he ever will get out.”

“_He’s_ all right,” said I. “He’s quite enjoying it.”

A spell of very quiet play followed. Charlie’s wicket provoked him to
bowl five maidens in succession to the Pessimist. But his sister was so
keen a critic that this proceeding mightily displeased her.

“Fast bowlers,” said she, “are all big hearts and brute force--no
intellect at all you know. They’ve got about as many brains as a giddy
old crocodile. What’s Charlie bowling like that for? Can’t he see that
he’s just helping that man to play himself in? Why don’t he chuck him a
‘tice’ or a full toss, or something that’s downright bad--anything to
make him have a go before he gets his eye in.”

Ere long a thunderclap informed Hickory that yet another century had
been scored against them that humiliating afternoon. The Ancient in
defiance of all criticism had had the audacity to complete his hundred;
and I for one believe most firmly that Hickory never would have got him
out had not the Fates interfered on their behalf. For as he attempted
one of his favourite short ones directly afterwards, A. H., fielding
deep mid-off, dashed in like a deer, gathered the ball, and hurled
down the Ancient’s wicket with the energy of despair, whilst that
unfortunate was still cavorting a yard outside the crease. Oldknow had
played a great innings, but----no, the Ancient is too sound a bat and
far too good a fellow for a Little Clumpton man to say rude things
about his play. Miss Grace, a thorough-going Hickoryite, had no such
scruples.

“Wasn’t that a bit of lovely fielding,” said she, drawing a deep
breath. “I do like to see ’em field like that; and it’s Oldknow, is it?
Helped himself to a hundred and one. I call that cheek. If he could
only bat I shouldn’t care.”

“Genius covers a multitude of sins,” said I.

“It’s got to, if he’s a genius,” said Miss Grace; “but if that’s
genius, give me something common. Bad taste and all that, I know; but
that chap worries me. Besides, if he’s a genius, why don’t he wear long
hair and look intense, like Paderewski. That might carry things off a
bit, and keep people from looking at his batting, don’t you think?”

“By Jove,” said I, “very good idea. I’ll suggest it to him.”

The Humourist, known as Merryweather in private life, came out to the
Pessimist. Cheers greeted his appearance. The crowd knew him of old. He
was the most uncertain bat that ever put on pads. Oh, but if he only
stayed! One Gilbert Jessop had to take second place if Merryweather
only stayed. True, he only did stay about five times a season, but as
no one knew the occasion he was likely to honour with his presence for
any lengthened period, the apparition of his six feet three of smiling
insolence always sent a thrill through the assembly.

“Bloomin’ ’ard and bloomin’ ’igh and bloomin’ often,” was his game.
He was a man who carried few theological ideas, but it was understood
that his conception of Paradise was a place of short boundaries
and unlimited lob-bowling. He had a partiality for the Park, as it
fulfilled the first of these conditions.

“Isn’t this your Slogger?” asked Miss Grace.

“Now that slogging’s at a premium,” said I, “we’d call him a fine,
free, forcing batsman.”

“I wish these boundaries weren’t so jolly small,” said Miss Grace with
an apprehensive eye. “I don’t like to see a man his inches come in
smiling.”

The first ball the Humourist received he sent humming over our coach
into a cornfield at the back. During the interval in which Hickory
endeavoured to recover it, the remarkable silence of the Optimist
attracted my attention. It was so foreign to his usual habit of kind
discursiveness that I felt there must be some grave reason for it. He
had not uttered a word for forty minutes.

“Brightside, when do you go in?” said I.

“Next but one,” he sighed.

This was a sufficient explanation. The man was suffering. He was
determined to be cheerful, but could not disguise the pallor underneath
his tan. He drummed his fingers nervously on his knees; a restlessness
had taken him; there was a wild look in his eye. Seizing a moment when
Miss Grace was occupied in evolving from the analysis the number of
runs Charlie had paid for his solitary wicket the Optimist whispered,--

“Shouldn’t care a bit, you know, if she wasn’t here. I was never
properly coached at school, you know. I will draw away from leg balls,
you know. If Charlie bowls any, you know, sure as death, I shall retire
towards the umpire. Do you think she’ll be able to tell that from here?”

“They say Abel does the same,” said I evasively.

“And I’ve got no wrist, you know. Can’t cut a bit, you know. Have to
sort o’ shove ’em, you know, with my arms and shoulders.”

“Quite a coincidence,” said I, “for they always say that the Old Man
does all his cutting with his arms and shoulders.”

“And I’m always scraping forward and feeling for ’em. Get so beastly
flurried if I wait, that I’m certain to be bowled.”

“Well,” said I, “it’s the sort of wicket on which you can play forward
to anything. Hard as concrete.”

“But she’s fair death on style,” said the poor old Optimist. “She’s got
such a terrible high standard, don’t you know? Asked her this morning
what she thought of A. H.’s batting. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Archie’s a
pretty fair _rustic_ bat.’”

“She may take a much higher view of yours,” said I. “Women are that
funny, you don’t know when you’ve got ’em. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised
if she don’t fall in with your style on the spot, for really I’ve seen
worse.”

“Not much,” groaned the poor old Optimist.

Here the voice of this unflinching critic, who really had been born
half a century too late, such an ornament she would have been to
_Blackwood_ and the _Quarterly_ in their palmy days, put an end to our
painful conversation. As the field were returning with the ball, she
bent over the wheels to tell her brother Charlie, in a not inaudible
undertone:

“Forty-three overs, twelve maidens, eighty-nine runs, one wicket.
Sounds good don’t it. ’Nother wicket’d be a rather nice idea.
Trying bowling left hand Charlie,--couldn’t be worse than Tommy’s
plough-and-harrow-agricultural-produce anyhow.”

The Harrow captain hearing this was observed to display some colour,
and march hastily out of earshot. But a worse fate awaited him on his
arrival at the crease.

The Humourist, having hit his first ball for six in his playful way,
proceeded to treat his second with a similar levity by lifting that
over the pavilion. This, however, did not appeal in the least to
Harrow’s sense of humour. Therefore, when its captain pitched his third
ball ridiculously short, the gentle Humourist had time to wait and
sweep it round to the square-leg boundary. But it was not here that the
youthful Tom’s humiliation ended. The Humourist walked sedately down
the wicket to the bowler’s end, and proceeded to pat down the turf near
the bowler’s foot.

“’Serves him jolly well right,” said Miss Grace hotly, “it’ll teach
these public school cubs not to be so jolly cheeky.”

But here the spirit of compassion suddenly appeared in the victim’s
sister. Her eyes showed that she also resented the liberties thus taken
with a member of her family. “I tell you what though,” she added as
an afterthought; “it strikes me that that Merryweather of yours is a
pretty big piece of a brute. Poor old Tommy! I wish he’d bowl him.”

For some little time, however, the Humourist went on his way rejoicing.
He swiped two of Charlie’s best, high over the head of cover-point, in
the most amazing manner, and it was only when in the exuberance of his
heart that he tried to serve a yorker in a similar fashion, that the
honour of the Trenthams was avenged. The playful Humourist had included
two sixes and three fours in his twenty-eight.

“Why don’t Halliday declare,” said the poor Optimist, overborne with
the knowledge that he must go forthwith and put his pads on.

“Yes, why don’t he?” said Miss Grace.

“We’ve not got a bit of bowling,” said I.

“But our batting’s not very clever, you know,” said Miss Grace
enticingly.

“Really,” said I. “But then some of us looked in this morning’s
_Sportsman_, and from our point of view it didn’t read pretty.”

“But what price the bowling?” said Miss Grace more coaxingly than ever.
“Notts is almost _too_ awful, an’ Yorkshire’s a bit fluffy on a plumb
pitch. As for Household Brigade and Gentlemen o’ Cheshire, I wouldn’t
mind an hour or two myself of their sort--just about my weight. _Do_
hope Halliday’ll declare. Great error if he don’t. Our men are so
tired, too; you might scuttle us like fun.”

“Or we mightn’t,” said I callously. “And I can’t help thinking that
we mightn’t. Halliday will be well advised to go for the record. Of
course, if we’d got some bowling, we’d be at you like a shot.”

The Captain was plainly of my mind, for he gave no sign, and the
unhappy Optimist, much against his inclination, climbed down from the
box, and wended his way to the pavilion.

“Why did Jack put me in so early?” his agonised expression said. “He
knows I always like to go in tenth.”

The General Nuisance reigned in the stead of the Humourist now.
Though the General Nuisance might be mistaken for an utter fiend in
private life, his batting on hard grounds was angelic. People who
had not to support the personal acquaintance of the Honourable John
Blenkinsop-Comfort were often heard to inquire why he had never got his
“blue,” and why his exquisite batting was not more generally recognised
by the authorities. It is no desire of mine to betray anybody’s
confidences, but I feel sure the authorities _must_ have had very
excellent reasons. No doubt, as in the melancholy case of Miss Grace
and Harrow School, they felt that somewhere they were bound to draw the
line.

“390 up, boy!” called Miss Grace. The next over she broke into mirth of
a most undisguised character. “Toddles is going on,” she said. “I’ll
put that in my diary.”

Forthwith producing a small book from her pocket, she inquired for the
date, and placed this pleasant fact in the annals of the world.

“Well, there’s one thing to be said for Toddles’ bowling,” said its
historian. “It can’t be called derogatory to his cloth. It’s just the
stuff a parson should roll up.”

“Why?” I asked in my innocence.

“There’s no devil in it,” said Miss Grace.

“Oh!” I said. I subsided.

The Reverend Mr. Elphinstone’s deliveries were slow, simple-minded
toss-ups of the most innocuous kind. The Pessimist and the General
Nuisance having helped themselves to twenty-seven in two overs,
the patentee and sole manufacturer of this sort of bowling was
incontinently shunted for Captain George, who gallantly went on with
lobs. The happiness of that intrepid officer’s sister was good to
observe.

“Dear simple soul,” she said. “That’s just old George. _So_ ingenuous
you know. Look at him, rolling up his sleeves and setting out the
field. If this ground’s big enough to hold old George, he’s altered
lately. Now watch, he’s beginning his run. Oh, hang it, I’ve left my
kodak on the billiard table. What lovely sights you _do_ see when you
haven’t got your kodak! Old George really ought to keep his bowling in
a show, you know. It’s so _sudden_, so _unexpected_! It reminds me of
those ‘Odes in Contribution to the Jolly Song, of the Jolly Something,’
that the Guv’nor’s got. I say, do look at him. There he goes--the dear
old boy!--a hop, a stride, another hop, another stride, a double jump,
and then he chucks up the innocentest cuckoo that you ever saw.”

His first ball came into collision with a tankard of beer in the
refreshment booth; but it would be kinder to draw the veil of reticence
around the gallant Captain’s trundling.

It was now something after five, the Little Clumpton score was 440 for
four wickets, and the bowling of proud Hickory was dead, and longing
for a quiet funeral. To see this haughty eleven, footsore, weary, limp,
and very cross, not troubling to save the boundary, failing to back
up, keeping the bowler waiting while they crossed over, was a sermon
in itself on the instability of human triumphs and the cussedness of
cricket. Five members of their side had totalled 727 between them the
previous day, but now those five in common with their less gifted
colleagues, were compelled to expiate their severities in as vigorous
a leather-hunting as ever a team submitted to. And, to aggravate
their pains, they knew quite well that on this occasion, Little
Clumpton’s so-called bowling was an object of derision. The sight of
these world-famed batsmen limping round the boundary, and repeatedly
extracting the ball from a sharp-tongued and not too sympathetic
multitude, was perilously like one of the ironies of life strained to
the point of pathos. But as I have no desire to wallow in the pathetic,
leaving that to my intellectual betters, let me touch as lightly as I
can on the tragedy of Hickory. Let it suffice that the Pessimist and
the General Nuisance remained at the wickets cutting, driving, leg
hitting, and showing off their wrist work till stumps and the match
were drawn. As a new record had been set up in Little Clumpton _v._
Hickory, I think it justifiable to reproduce the full score as it
appeared in the _Sportsman_ the following morning. The bowling analysis
is withheld, however, out of compassion for Miss Grace, who took the
matter so very much to heart, that a young person less sound in her
constitution, and less right thinking in her mental habitudes, might
perhaps have kept her bed in consequence for several days. As I have
carefully copied this score out of my commonplace book, its correctness
is guaranteed.


LITTLE CLUMPTON _v._ HICKORY.

_1st Inns. of Little Clumpton._

  H. J. Halliday, b. H. C. Trentham               204
  R. C. Dimsdale, l.b.w. b. T. S. M. Trentham       7
  J. F. S. Oldknow, run out                       101
  W. Grimston, not out                             86
  J. G. Merryweather, b. H. C. Trentham            28
  Hon. J. Blenkinsop-Comfort, not out              59
  Extras                                           33
                                                 ----
            Total for four wickets                518

_Hickory did not bat._



CHAPTER XI

Cupid puts his Pads on


I WENT home, and passed an unquiet night. I like to think myself a
person of a sturdy unemotional habit whom neither men nor affairs can
discompose; but I’m certain that every time I fell into a doze, I was
dreaming of brown holland. And when I lay awake I was thinking of brown
holland. It is very chastening when the proud are smitten in their
self-esteem. Hitherto I had held my invincibility to be quite glorious.
The most fanciful dressing of the hair, the most fearful wonderful
“creation,” the most ingratiating small talk, I delighted to defy.
It pleased me to think, that I had a mind as much above cut, colour,
carriage and address, and whole magazines of blandishment, as any this
side professed misogyny. And I was reasonably gratified with this
high behaviour. Be sure it is no little thing for a young and pretty
eligible bachelor to look, to admit, and yet to remain impervious.
There was some consensus of opinion I believe amongst the manias of
the county that young Mr. Dimsdale really ought to settle down. You
should know that young Mr. Dimsdale having completed his education by a
rather liberal course of globe-trotting, had come home at last to play
the squire at his late father’s little place in the country. Therefore
his late father’s little place was desiring a mistress; his late
father’s little income was clamouring to be spent. His late father had
been in trade it is true--he had boiled soap, to be precise; Dimsdale’s
Dirt Defier, don’t you know? But young Mr. Dimsdale himself was so
much the thing, that these charitable ladies would never be able to
forgive themselves if through any fault of theirs he married something
“impossible”--an actress say, or one of those dreadful pushing
pig-sticking Americans!

I struck a match, and looked at the time. Twenty minutes past two. I
sat up in bed, and said confidentially to the bedroom furniture:

“Damn brown holland!”

It must have been somewhat embarrassing for the bedroom furniture I
know, but then the thing was getting serious. I was beginning to fear
that something had gone wrong with the works.

Now the case would not have been quite so singular had it been a
question of a brand-new gown from Paris. But a humble countryfied
brown holland! Ah! but was it quite so humble and so countryfied?
Wasn’t there a sweeping decision in its build that had “Redfern”
on it as legibly as the box in which it came. In fact, the more I
meditated on this unpretentious brown holland, the more imposing did
it grow. By Jove! it was not half so insignificant as it seemed. In
no time I had discovered so many potential charms in its deceitful
simplicity, that presently its individuality was merged in that of its
wearer. Redfern--good people--beauty no end--weekly refusals--earls,
etc.--great cricketing family--brother going out with Stoddart--father
awful big pot--no earthly--who was I--silly ass--soap-boiler’s
son--not even invited to play for the county--out for seven--couldn’t
bat for nuts--why didn’t I go to sleep--brown holland--damn brown
holland--sleep so much more desirable--what price her eyes--what was
the name of that complexion--wonder if my batting was likely to come
on--Archie a pretty fair rustic bat--wonder why all girls didn’t wear
brown holland--Zingari colours didn’t look so dusty with that hair--was
I ever going to sleep--who said brown holland--should be sure to see
her again--Hickory Rectory was just a nice walk--why wasn’t I a county
cricketer--rather a pretty name Grace--suited her too! I fell into
another doze and dreamt of going in first with Halliday to bat against
Middlesex at Lords. I was so nervous and excited that I could hardly
walk. When I asked the umpire in a hoarse voice for my guard, and he
turned his face towards me, I saw with horrified surprise that he wore
brown holland underneath his white coat, and that he had the voice and
face of a lady. When she said, “Your bat’s horribly wobbly; Charlie’ll
get through that like fun,” the shock was too great to be borne, and I
woke up in a sweat.

I was such a dismal dog and my appetite was so delicate, that I
breakfasted on tea and toast, and actually elected to peruse a stern
indictment of the Government’s Foreign Policy in the _Times_ rather
than the _Sportsman’s_ account of yesterday’s county matches. I was
sick of cricket. It was such an unsatisfactory game. Besides, it was of
no service to the liver. I was certain that that important organ had
gone wrong again. Must have advice about it, and do more riding. Sell
my bats or burn them, and devote myself to polo. Capital idea!

I was sipping my tea reflectively, and tracing the strange resemblance
of its colour to the complexion of the young person in brown holland,
when the General Nuisance obtruded his hateful presence through the
open window, as his wont was, without any ceremony whatever. He was
reeking of self-satisfaction and tobacco smoke.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said he, casting his lighted cigarette on the
carpet in a way that promised to ignite it. Pouring himself out a cup
of coffee, without waiting to be invited, he said:

“Look pretty chippy this morning, my son. Still fretting about that
l.b.w.?”

“Drink your coffee and cut,” said I, as impolitely as I could.

“Want to be alone, eh?” said he. “Why that’s a symptom. Let’s see your
tongue. And I’d better feel your pulse.”

“You’ll probably feel my boot,” said I.

“Very prettily expressed,” said the General Nuisance. Thereon he seated
himself on a corner of the breakfast-table, and seemed certain to
capsize the bacon-dish every time he swung his legs. “Most incisive and
direct.”

“Will be,” said I, not so irrelevantly as it may appear.

“I’ll prescribe for your disease,” said he.

“You can go to hell,” said I.

“Well,” said he suavely, “my prescription is in that direction too. I
want you to go and drown yourself. You’re in love.”

“Who told you?” I shouted.

How singular it was that I had not had the faintest suspicion till
that moment that love was the name of my disease! But when the General
Nuisance clapped a name upon my malady, not for an instant did I doubt
him.

“Hard that a man of your fine presence should suffer from
hallucinations,” said that glibly hateful person. “Must feel pretty
squiffy. You go and drown yourself, my pilgrim. Quite the nicest death
in summer. Water beautifully warm. Besides, you’ve got a pretext in
your l.b.w. Jury’ll bring in a ‘temporarily insane’ without any coarse
remarks. Now then, go away and die. And what an awfully swagger corpse
you’d make. They’re not always so well nourished and full of blood, you
ostentatious idiot.”

“Who told you I was in love?” said I.

“Your looks,” said he.

“Are they very descriptive?” said I apprehensively.

“Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray,” said he, lighting a fresh
cigarette. “Decent girl though.”

“Decent!” said I, clenching my fist in my enthusiasm; “she’s the
magnificentest girl you ever saw!”

“Strange,” said he, “how all the objects of our affection suffer from
superlatives.”

“She’s not an object,” said I fiercely, “she’s a perfect angel. If you
knew her, you’d say she was too good to live. And such eyes too!”

“Oh, Granny, what big ears you’ve got!” said he; then dropping his
tone, “you excite my fears, old chap. ’Devilish cut up to find your
nervous system in such a disorganized condition.”

“Don’t spill your phrases all over the place,” said I. “You’re not in
Parliament yet.”

“_You’re_ putting up for Elysium, I see,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll
get in though. Rival candidates too strong.”

“Who?” I said faintly.

“Right Honourable Earl Boughey for one,” he said.

“He can’t bat though,” I said.

“His acres compensate.”

“She’s not that kind of girl,” I said quickly.

“They never are--until you get left! Then there’s the cherished,
respectable Optimist.”

“Poor old soul, he’s got no earthly!”

“How sad! But sit on your pity and keep it snug. It’ll be needed for
another, or woman has changed since my time. Don’t you know that every
sanguine temperament in the shire is similarly bent? She’s at home the
first Monday and the third Friday for the purpose of dispatching ’em.
Does ’em in detachments. As Archie pathetically says, ‘To a peaceable
and quiet mind the slaughter is distressing.’ And she’s going to be a
sister to ’em all. Archie says he can’t sleep o’ nights for thinking of
his poor relations.”

“Don’t care,” said I doggedly; “she’s A 1.”

“Rather liberal-minded too.”

“The best women always are.”

“Out of the mouths of babes! But this’ll gladden you. Middlesex man,
stylish, dashing bat, fair change bowler, irreproachable field, is the
dark horse. Were you only he, the deity might deign. But as you are
merely a club-man with ambitions, be advised, and go and pack your
brain in ice. For these cases the cold water cure has the highest
testimonials. I’m speaking plain, because it pains me to see Joyous
Imbecility riding for a fall. So long as it tumbles on its head there’s
no harm done. Besides, the vanity that lives there sometimes gets a
jog. But if it drops on top of its emotions, it’s been known to write a
book, and that, my pilgrim, in the interests of humanity I feel it my
duty to discountenance.”

The General Nuisance having disposed of his piece of news, and having
trampled on my feelings as far as considerations for his personal
safety would permit, dismounted from the table in a way that involved
the overturning of the hot-water dish on to my fox terrier, lying
inoffensively on the hearthrug. Thereon he took his leave, professing
deep solicitude for my deplorable condition, and departed to advertise
it to the world.

Poets always lead one to understand that the tender passion is an
ecstatic, quick-breathing sort of thing. But in this present case of
mine it simply made me morose and brooding, with a distinct tendency
to put me off my ordinary game. Loss of appetite, a general lassitude,
moodiness, abstraction, and an instability of purpose that would not
let me do any one thing for more than five minutes at a time, were a
few of my symptoms on this memorable morning. I loafed about the fields
throughout the forenoon with no other companion than the Rubaiyat of
Mr. Rudyard Kipling--I am sure I beg your pardon, I mean of course,
the Rudyard Kipling of Mr. Omar Kháyyám--for once despising sporting
literature, as I had discovered that sport itself was such a hollow,
unsatisfying thing. On coming back to lunch I found that my sister Mary
had returned from town. To my shame be it said I did not know whether
to be glad or sorry. Mary is a most sympathetic person, but at the same
time I was craving just now for a life of solitude.

“Had a good time?” said I, immediately on the top of the fraternal
ceremony.

“Yes, and no,” said Mary, in a way that the best girls have. Yes, to
imply that she really had had a good time; no, to suggest that she was
not insensible to her severance from a loving brother. A mere man would
have been incapable of summing up the exigencies of the moment in this
wholly admirable fashion.

“But, Ricky,” said she, placing her hands on my shoulders and looking
into my face with tremendously embarrassing intentness, “what’s the
matter with you? You look quite old and weary. You didn’t get a duck
yesterday.”

“I only got seven,” said I, seeking to creep out on a subterfuge.

“Yes, I bought a _Sportsman_,” said Mary. “Leg before’s very annoying,
I know, but you mustn’t let it wreck your health.”

“But mine was the only single figure,” said I, to still further disarm
suspicion.

But all this time Mary’s penetrating glance had never left my
dissembling countenance; and when she said, in a rather downright
manner, “Look here, Ricky, I don’t think it’s that at all,” I was not a
bit surprised by her profundity, although it did not prevent me looking
guilty.

“They’ve not invited you to play against Somerset next week?” she
asked, with bated breath; “because if they have I can understand it.”

“No,” I said, “they’ve not.”

“Then I think they’re very mean,” said Mary; “but what _is_ the matter,
Ricky?”

Now Mary had a way with her that I never could resist. Besides here is
a difference between the sexes. We have only one way of getting to know
anything we want to know, and that is blunt demand; but a woman has
five thousand ways or more, mostly indirect, to make the Sphinx unfold
its bosom. Therefore it was a rule of mine to accept the inevitable
straight away in the case of Mary. Sooner or later she was bound to
catch me napping, besides, an early concession spared us both a vast
amount of trouble.

“Do you know Laura Trentham?” said I desperately.

“Oh, yes,” said Mary.

“Wouldn’t you call her no end of a nice girl?”

“She’s a very dear girl,” said Mary warmly. “Quite one of the nicest
girls I know--if she wouldn’t talk slang.”

“Slang!” said I. “Why, _does_ she talk slang?”

“Dreadfully,” said Mary, in that tone of high reproof that the best
sisters are so fond of. “Dreadfully, Ricky. Isn’t it a pity?”

“Awful,” said I. “S’pose slangy women are awfully beastly.”

“They’re _outrées_,” said Mary. “Besides, men like it.”

“Don’t think they know what slang is,” said I. “S’pose it’s the same as
the split infinitive--sort o’ thing that everybody likes to jolly well
jaw about and don’t know what it is.”

“My _dear_ Ricky,” said Mary sternly. Her eye fairly flashed with the
Higher Culture, therefore I hastened to dismiss a subject on which she
had such strong opinions.

“I met Laura Trentham yesterday, at the Hickory match, you know,” said
I guiltily.

“Hadn’t we better begin lunch?” said Mary. “Travelling’s made me so
hungry.”

It was well for Mary that her patience had no limits, for during that
meal I consumed incredible quantities of this invaluable article.
However, I felt perhaps a thought more cheerful for the energy and
colour of my language. But Mary’s last word was:

“Ricky, I’m so sorry that Laura Trentham does talk slang.”

I lost no time in seeking the open air. Indoors I breathed with
difficulty, and was, moreover, ridiculously restless. I wandered
aimlessly about the fields of sunshine, without noting in the least the
direction that I took. I meandered across blistering meadows to the
neighbouring village of Nowhere-in-Particular. A singularly disordered
mind was my one companion. And such was its condition that I neither
heeded my direction nor the landmarks by the way. Therefore, when in
the course of two hours’ rambling it suddenly occurred to me that it
would be as well to observe where I was, and set my face for home, I
should not have been very surprised to find that I had strolled off
the map of England. Where was I? There was a low hedge directly ahead.
Beyond that I could indistinctly see, trees being intermingled with
them, glass-houses, out-houses, and an ivy-grown, ancient manor-house.
Whose place was this? Next instant I shook with hollow laughter at
myself. It was Hickory Rectory, Miss Grace’s home. This was really
too preposterous. The ivy-grown arrangement just in front was Hickory
Rectory for all that. And the family were still at home, and apparently
engaged in their principal vocation. For even as I stood girding at
my own absurdity, a voice came from the other side the hedge to this
effect: “Grace, if you will keep covering the sticks every time with
your confounded skirt, you’ll be out petticoat before.”

“Oh, shall I!” said the audacious person thus addressed. “If you can’t
bowl me, you’d better bowl for catches and get me caught. Put Toddles
on. He might get me collared in the long-field like anything.”

Although I was still applying cynical laughter to my infernal folly,
I was quite prepared to seize the opportunity of seeing great men in
private life, and that other surpassing member of their family showing
them how things should be done. Therefore I found myself gazing with
both eyes over the hedge on to the Rectory lawn. It was a single wicket
match. Grace herself was batting. A. H. was bowling slow breaks;
Captain George was keeping wicket; Elphinstone was in the country; T.
S. M., H. C., and Carteret were all disposed on the leg-side; whilst an
old, foxey-looking individual was acting in the responsible capacity of
umpire. I had not been there a minute ere Miss Grace, in attempting a
tremendous blind swipe right off her middle over the cucumber frame at
deep square-leg, was saved by her skirt from being clean bowled.

“How’s that?” cried A. H., lustily.

“Not hout!” cried the umpire, in a tone that plainly told A. H. what
he, the umpire, thought of him as a man and a gentleman.

“Very good decision, Biffin,” said Miss Grace, calmly patting down the
turf to show that the ball had turned a bit. However, Nemesis waited
on Miss Grace next ball. With another mighty swipe she fetched a real
good one round like lightning, and the youthful T. S. M., fielding
short-leg, jumping up, effected a wonderful one-handed catch.

“Well, what a fluke!” cried Miss Grace; “that would have been the
winning hit.”

“But isn’t,” said Elphinstone, alias Toddles, cheerfully; “and Surrey
have beaten Middlesex by two runs. First defeat of the champion county.
Oh, Stoddy, why weren’t you steadier?”

“Yes, why weren’t you steadier, Stoddy?” said Carteret.

“’Cause I didn’t think there was anybody in this parish who could catch
anything after yesterday’s exhibition,” said the famous Middlesex
batsman dejectedly.

“What’s the next fixture in the Middlesex list?” asked Captain George.

“Middlesex _v._ Gloucestershire at Cheltenham,” said Miss Grace. “Same
sides. Let’s toss for innings.”

“You’ve got a man more than we, though,” said T. S. M.

“As you play for Harrow, Tommy, you count two you know,” said Miss
Grace.

“Hullo, there’s Dimsdale here,” cried H. C., as his eye lit on me.
“He’s just the man we want for Gloucester. Go round, Dimsdale, to the
gate.”

A minute later I was on the Rectory lawn, and preparing to engage in my
first county match.

“As it’s Gloucestershire,” said George the kindly, “somebody’ll have
to represent the Old Man. Now Grace herself is the only one with any
pretensions to do that. Suppose Middlesex swaps her for me?”

“Ripping good idea!” said that celebrated person eagerly. “That’s
stunning! Biffin, just go and fetch me that red and yellow cap, while I
go out and toss with Mr. Stoddart.”



CHAPTER XII

My First County Match


MIDDLESEX won the toss, and elected to go in. Archie put on his pads
and went in first, on a distinctly creditable wicket. Grace captained
Gloucestershire, of course.

“As Roberts is suffering from a strain,” said she, “and Charlie
Townsend’s lost his length, and Jessop’s a bit on the short side at
present, I think I’d better try myself to start with. Besides, I can
get old Archie out.”

She began with very slow, high-tossed, half volleys. Considering that
Archie was one of the most powerful hitters in England, this proceeding
on the part of W. G. savoured of cool cheek.

“These are no use, you know,” said the batsman, driving one
terrifically hard along the ground for a big single.

“You hit ’em and see,” said the wily bowler. “If you do, Archie, sure
as a gun you’ll put ’em through the library windows.”

Grace had shown her hand with a vengeance. The library windows were
sufficiently far away to be likely to receive one of Archie’s best
hits. It was plain that this knowledge rendered the batsman very
uneasy. Invitingly simple balls, that he would have taken a mild
pleasure in lifting into the Lords’ pavilion, he felt bound to treat
with every respect, as a momentary indiscretion was likely to have
the direst consequences. But presently the flesh was no longer to be
denied. Having patiently withstood the insidious charms of six or
seven, his self-repression suddenly gave way, and, exactly as the
bowler anticipated, smash went the ball through the library windows. It
was vain that Elphinstone, celebrated out-field as he was, attempted
to get at it. A painfully significant crashing of glass testified to
the unfailing judgment of W. G. A moment later, to the consternation of
every witness of the incident, out came the reverend occupant of the
library, spectacted and bareheaded, _The Times_ newspaper fluttering in
his hand, and a great indignation hovering about him generally.

“I positively won’t have it!” he cried in his deepest tones. “It’s
shameful! Do you know what that window’s worth? And are you aware that
you’ve damaged the new _Encyclopædia Britannica_?”

“Well, father,” said W. G. penitently, “we are all of us ever so
dreadfully sorry,” and then made haste to append, “but you know you
bought the Cycling--what-do-you-call-it--quite against my advice,
didn’t you, father? Don’t believe in these great bargains. You men
don’t either, do you?”

“Oh no, we don’t,” chimed everybody, with wonderful conviction and
unanimity.

“I knew you didn’t,” said Grace, with great enthusiasm. “I was certain
that you didn’t.”

Our extreme distrust of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, considered as an
investment, grew quite noticeable.

Incredible as it may seem, however, Miss Grace’s parent did not allow
these earnestly-expressed opinions to bias his own in the matter of
window breaking. Indeed, they were as fervently uttered as ours, and,
if anything, more pointed. Nor did he abate in his behaviour, nor
did his _Times_ cease its fluttering till he suddenly observed the
situation of the wicket, and the mighty cricketer beside it. Thereupon
the change in his demeanour was as instant as it was welcome.

“What!” he cried, “was it hit from there? Extraordinary, most
extraordinary! Archie, let me feel that bat. And, Biffin, will you
please fetch the tape. This must be measured. Considerably more than a
hundred yards, I’ll wager.”

Next moment he was brandishing Archie’s bat, in a manner that plainly
said that this was not the first bat handle that had exercised his grip.

“A Warsop, is it?” said the veteran. “I remember ’em. Once remember
putting old Mat Kempson out of Prince’s with one of Ben’s. Old Matthew
_was_ annoyed. Beautifully balanced this is. Must be every ounce of
two-seven, yet it picks up like two-two.”

“It’s two-seven and a half, sir,” said Archie, with a particularly
pleased expression.

“It’s a pretty bit o’ wood,” said the old gentleman, with caresses in
his tone. “A pretty bit o’ wood. I think I’d like to try it. Laura,
just send me one along. Nice and slow, please; my eyesight’s not what
it used to be.”

This request made his daughter a very proud and happy person. Having
instructed Toddles, in imperious language, to recover the ball _at
once_ from the library _débris_, and he having instantly obeyed, she
said:

“All right, father; here you are. Mind the ‘work.’ There’s an awful
lot o’ stuff on,” and bowled him one of her very best. This the old
gentleman kept out of his wicket stiffly but skilfully.

“It strikes me that father can give us all a point or two yet,” said
Miss Grace, evidently charmed with the way in which he had defended his
wicket.

“He’d still be playing for Middlesex if it were not for his eyesight,”
said the best bowler in England.

“It’s my sciatica, Charlie; it’s my sciatica!” sighed the old
gentleman. “When I was your age, my boy, it was different.”

The return of Biffin with the tape measure prolonged this interruption
to the game. For it was not until old Mr. Trentham had arrived by
mensuration at the exact distance of Archie’s drive, that he retired in
high good humour to his shattered library. Even then before the game
could be resumed there was a legal argument involved. Gloucestershire
argued under “Rectory rules” that, in the event of any batsman breaking
a window, or hitting a ball over the hedge, or sending it on to the
garden twice in one innings, the said batsman should be out. They
acted on the expert advice of W. G., who, as the irreverent Toddles
said, knew every move on the board, and one or two that were under it.
Middlesex disclaimed all knowledge of the clause in question, and T.
S. M. even had the audacity to suggest that it was an invention of W.
G.’s to suit the present occasion. W. G., of course, very indignantly
denied this, and, fortunately for her side, was able by a simple
expedient to prove beyond controversy that the attitude of Middlesex
was quite inadmissible, and entirely opposed to the best interests of
the game. For, running into the house, she triumphantly returned with a
dog’s-eared and time-stained exercise book, wherein, under rule seven,
duly set forth in a large, round, juvenile hand, it was found that
Archie was most certainly out.

“Won’t it look a bit queer, though?” said T. S. M. “A. H. Trentham,
broke window, bowled W. G. Grace, three?”

“He shouldn’t be so reckless,” said W. G. severely. “Besides, it won’t
look queerer than A. H. Trentham sent the ball on the garden twice. The
idea of Rectory rules is to sit on brute force a bit you know, and to
prop--to propa--just wait while I look in the book. Yes, here it is,
‘and to encourage the propagation and cultivation of pure science.’”

“Which rendered into modern English means,” said Carteret, who, in his
spare time, was a barrister, “that the aim of the Rectory rules is
to get the other side out as soon as ever you can, and then keep in
yourself until you’ve had enough. That’s about it, Grace, isn’t it?”

“No, James,” said that authority; “it’s just where you’re wrong.
’Cause some people never have had enough. I’ve not for one.”

“She’s as bad as Ranjy for battin’,” said the Harrow captain. “Set’s
shillin’s on her sticks, and tempts Biffin to sweat away at ’em
till he’s set up heart disease. Dirt mean, I call it. Ought to be
half-crowns for a man his years.”

“You’re not likely to give anything heart disease in knocking tips off
your sticks, are you, Tommy?” said his sister persuasively.

Harrow liked not this at all. Therefore, when a serious flaw in
Gloucestershire’s line of argument occurred to T. S. M., his face lit
up with a sudden satisfaction.

“Perhaps Doctor William Gilbert Grace’ll tell us,” said he, dwelling
lovingly on every word, “If accordin’ to the blitherin’ rules a
fellow’s out every time he breaks a window, why she don’t go out
herself every time she breaks the cucumber frame.”

The Harrow captain ended amidst the approving shouts of Middlesex.

“That’s amongst your timber, Willy,” said the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone,
executing a _pas seul_ in the middle of the pitch.

“Oh, is it?” said the dauntless W. G. “You just hold on a bit. A window
is a window, and a cucumber frame’s a cucumber frame.”

“A Daniel come to judgment,” said Archie, otherwise A. E. Stoddart.
“Are there no windows in a cucumber frame then?”

“Why o’ course there’s not, Archie--I mean, Stoddy,” said W. G., in a
tone that might have been mistaken for intimidation.

“’May be wrong, you know,” said Archie; “but in my opinion panes of
glass constitute windows, if they’re fixed in a cucumber frame, just as
much as though they were in a church.”

“Stoddy, _you’re_ talking through your hat,” said W. G. “A window’s a
thing to see out of, isn’t it?”

“S’pose it is,” said the Middlesex captain.

“Well, Stoddy,” said the triumphant W. G., “just you tell us how
cucumber frames _can_ have windows _if cucumbers can’t see_.”

Great uproar from Gloucester, during which the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone was
seen to throw himself full length on the lawn, and roll about in sheer
_gaieté de cœur_. Even the dignified features of the Middlesex captain
were disturbed by a broad smile.

“Doctor,” he said, “they’ll have to make you a baronet yet. Oh, you
amusing person!”

“She may be a kind of conscientious objector, don’t you know?” cried
Carteret, the legal luminary, aiming ineffectual kicks at the rolling
curate. “Rather think you’d better give the doctor a certificate
of exemption, Stoddy, if Grace’ll swear solemnly on oath that she
conscientiously believes that cucumbers really cannot see by any chance
or possibility.”

The display of feeling that greeted this solution of the problem was
remarkable. The fat barrister was hailed as a legal genius.

“Well,” said Archie, screwing his features into a defiant solemnity,
“if the Old Man’ll swear by her beard that she conscientiously believes
that cucumbers really _can’t_ see, we’ll insert a special clause into
the rules to provide for the cucumber frame.”

“But I can’t, you know, Archie,” said Miss Grace, “’cause I’ve got no
beard. But I do believe that cucumbers can’t see all the same though.”

“This is serious,” said the unrelenting Archie. “The Old Man without
his beard is worse than Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark.”

“You’ll have to swear on something, Willy, that’s a cert.,” said
Charlie, “else we shan’t believe you.”

“Somebody fetch a Bible,” said Carteret. “Now then, Toddles, you idle
little beast, why don’t you go and fetch one of your collection.”

“Let her kiss my hat,” said the little curate, suddenly sitting
upright on the grass, with a look of utter holiness that would have
made his vicar glad. “As I’m a parson, it’ll be quite the truest
administration of an oath that’s possible. Every parson carries the
whole contents of the Scriptures in the lining, all hallowed by his
intellect as well. You know it, brethren, don’t you? Besides, it’ll
save me the fag of going to the house. Yes, by all means, let her kiss
my hat.”

At this suggestion, the solemnity that seized us all was really
marvellous. We had gravity enough to equip a class for confirmation.

“Jimmy, here’s my hat!” said Toddles. “Isn’t it a blessing that
you’re a commissioner for oaths--horrid awful ones they are, you fat
blasphemer!”--this in an eloquent aside.

“Here, Grace, is his hat,” said Carteret.

Miss Grace took the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone’s not very particularly
ecclesiastical Harlequin cricket cap, and looked at it with some
dubiety.

“But this is not his hat, James,” said she. “This is his Harlequin.”

“All the same,” said Carteret judicially. “Embodies much of his best
thought. Look sharp and swear, Grace! It’s a great strain on us all,
I can assure you, Doctor, even though you mightn’t think it. These
moments of high emotion always are.”

Nobody laughed I am prepared to affirm. But before Miss Grace had the
oath administered to her, she looked at the witnesses with a keenness
that inconvenienced several of them rather considerably. She then
proceeded to thoughtfully scratch her chin.

“James,” said she, in a perplexed tone, “don’t quite know, you know;
not quite sure, you know, but--but I think you’re _having_ me.”

“Rather think you’re having us,” said Archie. “Do be quick, Grace! As
James says, you don’t know how difficult it is for us. Look at poor
Toddles worrying the grass.”

“What an emotional little man it is!” said Captain George with
rare sympathy. “And what a ghastly thing it must be to have such a
high-strung nature.”

“I think you men are laughing at me,” said Miss Grace sternly.

“She cannot understand us,” said George. “How sad it is to be
misunderstood!”

The poor soldier ended by diving suddenly and ignominiously for his
handkerchief.

“You don’t take me in,” said Grace.

“She won’t kiss Toddles’ cap,” said T. S. M., with the brutality of his
time of life, “because she thinks if she holds out long enough she’ll
be able to kiss Toddles himself.”

“Tommy!” said his sister, “if you were not so young, I should think you
were rude.”

A second later she added most uncompromisingly, “And it’s all right.
I’m not going to be had. I’m not going to kiss Toddles’s cap, if it is
a Harlequin, and if he did make a hundred against Cambridge in it. And
I’m not going to take the oath, and I’m not going to play the giddy ox
at all. Archie, you’re out, under rule seven, and out you’ve got to go.
What’s your opinion, Biffin? Is Mr. Archie out, or is he not?”

“Hout, miss,” said Biffin. “Hout, most certingly.”

“There you are!” said the Gloucestershire captain. “Next man get his
pads on. And if he’s not in in two minutes, his wicket’ll be claimed,
under rule forty-five.”

“Well, as the umpire is against me,” said Archie, “I suppose I shall
have to go. All the same, I think the M.C.C. ought to know about it.
These rules seem a bit unusual.”

“It’s ’cause you’re like the cucumbers, you know, Archie,” said W. G.
“It’s ’cause you can’t see.”

It is scarcely necessary to give a detailed narration of my
first county match. In a little over an hour the four Middlesex
representatives were disposed of for thirty-three. This was considered
a small score for the ground; but as both sides fielded, and very
admirably too, and hitting carried penalties with it, the Middlesex
total calls for no comment. Besides, the Gloucestershire captain was
a remarkably alert tactician, who knew the game of cricket perfectly
well, and the Rectory rules even better. Her placing of the field
betrayed an intimate acquaintance with the characteristics of each
batsman; and her slow bowling was perfect in length, and as full of
deception as it possibly could be. It might be true that Miss Grace
had no beard; but it did not prevent her representing W. G. in most
essentials. Indeed so much so, that when the youthful Harrow captain
came in second wicket, she was heard to remark, “Oh, he’s a young
’un, is he! I think I can do for him.” And in addition to her other
gifts, she possessed that rare but invaluable quality in a captain, of
practically dictating the decisions of the umpire. There is no doubt
that the Gloucestershire captain was invariably conscientious in her
appeals, and the umpire equally so in his decisions. But their common
faith in one another was beautiful. If Miss Grace did make an appeal,
the excellent Biffin felt bound to endorse it. In his eyes Miss Grace’s
judgment had an absolute and sovereign rectitude. Old pro. and county
man as he was, Biffin had never an opinion of his own on any point on
which Miss Grace happened to already entertain one. And this phenomenon
in itself, I think, supplies a sufficient reason why the fair sex has
yet to be seen in serious cricket. It simply would not do.

The fielding was excellent. Miss Grace’s eye was on it, and all of
us, whether we felt inclined that way or not, performed prodigies
of valour. And if the handsomest girl in the county brings off a
bewilderingly brilliant “caught and bowled” before one’s eyes, stops
the hottest cracks one hand, and fields and returns smashing hits all
in one action, any man, with the least pretensions to be a player, is
certain to be a bit above himself. Therefore do not be surprised that
my fielding in all positions was very good indeed, and won encomiums
from men who were accustomed to the best.

“Dimsdale,” said the little curate in a low but excruciatingly friendly
tone, “you stick to that pick-up and return, and you’ve got the least
little bit of a hundredth part of a look in. Keep as clean and keen
as that, and it’s just on the cards that you may be adopted as a
candidate.”

“Candidate?” said I.

“There was a man named Comfort came over here to lunch,” said the
little curate.

This sinister reference afflicted me with an overpowering
disinclination to pursue the subject farther.

Before Gloucestershire began their innings there was an interval for
tea. There is no doubt that this question of afternoon tea has become
quite a vexed one with the counties, and as Elphinstone--or was it
Carteret?--observed, there are counties in existence who resolutely
refuse to countenance the innovation. But Gloucestershire was never
one of these. Indeed, I’ve heard it said that when Gloucestershire are
fielding, though the reason is inexplicable of course, there is more
time consumed over the cup that cheers than on any other occasion.
Therefore in this instance it was quite an expected thing that there
should be a pretty considerable interval for tea, and that Gloucester’s
captain should lead the way to a fair white table, seductively spread
in the shade of the beeches and the chestnuts in the coolest corner
of the garden. The Rectory grounds were of no remarkable extent, but
harboured a charming wilderness with two lawns therein beautifully
turfed and mown and rolled for cricket only, to break the monotony of
shrubs, trees, and flowers, growing at their own sweet will. If this
was the favoured spot in which this famous family had been reared, and
this the air they breathed, small wonder that they played cricket as
naturally as Keats wrote poetry. They couldn’t help it. My enthusiasm
demanded an outlet, and I told Miss Grace that hers was the most
delightful place I’d ever seen.

“Yes, isn’t it just stunning!” she cried, while her glowing look
announced that her chiefest pleasure was to sing its praises. “Every
morning when I look out of my window and hear the birds kicking up a
jolly noise in the ivy, and see the dew scooting off the wicket, it
seems to come to me all at once, as if I’d never thought of it before,
that I live at just the primest place that ever was.”

“Isn’t it pretty old?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” said she. “Been in our family----”

“Since Noah,” T. S. M. rudely interposed.

“Now then,” said Toddles, “don’t Harrow your sister’s feelings.”

“Been in our family,” Miss Grace continued, ignoring these cursory
remarks with fine dignity, “since--since--oh well a long time before
cricket was invented. Been some awful swells here, too, at one time and
another. Old William Lillywhite once came here to tea. Then one or two
other awful pots have lived here--Edmund Spenser, Sir Philip Sydney,
Joseph Addison, oh! and the girl who invented round arm bowling.”

“And the girl who invented round arm bowlin’!” said the Harrow captain.
“Now tell us somethin’ else. The girl who invented round arm bowlin’!
Grace, when you get your jaw unshipped it’s a pleasure to sit and
listen.”

“Yes it was a girl,” said Miss Grace determinedly. “The Guv’nor’s got a
picture of her in his portfolio. Her name was Willes. What a good sort
she must have been! I just love that girl. I wish she was living now,
’cause then I could jolly well go and hug her for inventing it.”

“Miss Willes knew a thing or two, however,” said the Harrow captain,
“and took care to die in time.”

This was thought to be so undeserved, that the youthful Tom was
instantly collared low by the little curate, with all the science,
natural and applied, of a three-quarter who had been capped for England
twice, and flung into a prickly bush of gooseberries.

“In my opinion,” the little parson hastened to remark, in an attempt to
divert the public mind from this painful incident, “your place has only
one fault, Grace. It’s just a bit too small.”

“Oh, no,” said Grace; “I wouldn’t have it different for worlds. I
wouldn’t even have a fly knocked off it. What there is is perfect.
Always reminds me of you, you know, Toddles--it’s little and good.”

“My dear Grace,” said the little curate, bowing over his cap; “my dear
Grace, even I, the meanest of your servants! But if you believe that
your harrowing youngest brother would benefit in manners by a heavy
fall upon his head, pray let me hear you say so.”

It was in this amiably Christian spirit that the representatives of
Gloucestershire and Middlesex came to the tea-table. W. G., of course,
presided and dispensed the tea to the manner born; and the supplies of
strawberries and cream were so prodigious, indeed almost inexhaustible,
that we were allowed to help ourselves. It may not be generally known
that strawberries and cream are as essential to the cricket epicure as
a hard wicket and a cloudless heaven. There is something in their mere
flavour that smacks of glorious summer!

We had just begun our depredations, when the Rector appeared, in a
battered wideawake, with a long hoe in one hand, a cricket ball in the
other, and a particularly stern countenance behind his perspiration.

“Why, that’s the ball we lost last week!” cried Miss Grace. “Oh, thank
you, father; it is very good of you to bring it to us. Quite new too.
Only been played with twice.”

“I am very gratified to find that you do recognise it, Laura,” said
the Rector. “When I do happen to find them amongst the ruins, they are
mostly made out to come there in the ordinary course of nature, like
the frost and rain; as no one has the least idea, as a rule, how they
could possibly have arrived by any other agency. Do you know that you
have smashed my best auratum lily in the most wanton and outrageous
manner?”

“Indeed I don’t, father,” said Miss Grace, with a look of trouble. “You
don’t think it could have been the hedgehog, do you, father?”

“No, I don’t think it could have been the hedgehog, nor the peacock.”

“It might have been the mongoose, don’t you think?” Miss Grace said;
“they’re such awfully queer and ugly things.”

“No, I don’t think it was the mongoose,” said her parent, “queer and
ugly as they are. I think it was the cricket, and I propose to stop the
cricket’s little game. It’s shameful!”

“What, stop the cricket, sir!” His daughter’s tone was tragical.

“Yes, stop the cricket. I’ll have no more of it. It’s simply massacred
my tobacco plants. Rows upon rows I’ve tried to count and can’t, that
have got their tops off and are pounded into snuff.”

“I’m jolly sorry, father,” said Miss Grace. “But s’pose you have a cup
of tea. You look so hot and fagged. A cup of tea, with lots of cream
in, and a few of the best strawberries that you ever grew. Do you see
that we’re enjoying ’em a fortnight later than anybody else?”

“I also see,” said the Rector--not to be diverted by the tactful
feminine--“that my tigridias are broken into little pieces. The more I
think of what you’ve done, the more annoyed I feel!”

“I am afraid that it’s my hard hitting that’s done the mischief, sir,”
said the great batsman, who was going out with Stoddart, humbly.

“Oh, no, Archie,” said his sister, “nothing of the sort. Now I come to
think of it, I remember doing it myself. Look here, father, s’pose you
stop my ‘tin’ till the damage has been paid for.”

“That is a punishment that defeats itself,” the Rector said. “Last time
I took that course, these big brothers of yours, who are old enough to
know better, aided and abetted you to the extent of subscribing twice
the amount of pocket-money that you were losing. Why, you were able to
buy a new bat out of the profits of your crimes.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Grace quickly, “it was good old George who gave me
that. I can’t help old George being such a good sort, can I?”

“For valour, sir,” said the soldier, “always admire mettle, even in
criminals of the deepest dye.”

“You are all as bad as one another,” said the old gentleman, sitting
down to tea.

“Father,” said the hostess, “you are sitting next to Mr. Dimsdale,
who’ll soon be playing for his county. He’s got the loveliest crack to
cover that you ever saw.”

“Very glad to see you, sir,” said the old gentleman, “and I hope
you’ll excuse my display of heat. It takes a gardener to appreciate my
feelings. One cricket ball in one minute will find more repairs for
Nature than she can get through in a year.”

“I was thinking to myself, father, when you interrupted me,” said Miss
Grace, “that cricket nowadays is not what it was in your time. Where
are the great men of your day? There’s no Haywards and Carpenters now;
and there’s no Tarrants and Willshers. Where is the man that can bowl
like old John Jackson, where is the chap that can hit to leg like old
George Parr?”

It is a very painful thing for a determined admirer of Miss Grace’s sex
to set down in black and white, but I’m sure that, with one exception,
every man around that festive tea-table instinctively distrusted Miss
Grace’s extremely solemn countenance. The one exception, incredible as
it may seem, was Miss Grace’s honourable and reverend papa.

“By Jove!” cried the best bowler in England, playing his sister’s
wicked, unscrupulous game, “Grace is right. There’s no stars like
there used to be in the Guv’nor’s time.”

“Yes, Charlie,” said Miss Grace, “I’m very sorry to say it, but
cricket’s going down. Tom Richardson, Johnny Briggs, Arthur Mold,
and Charlie Trentham are not fit to tie the boots of George Freeman,
Jimmy Shaw, David Buchanan, and ‘The Reverent.’ And the batting too.
The Old Man was in his prime in the seventies, Shrewsbury’s getting
on, and where are you to find a man with the style of Dicky Daft? and
even Toddles can’t cut like old Eph. Lockwood, and Archie can’t lift
’em like Charlie Thornton. Cricket was cricket then. It wasn’t so much
like billiards. Batsmen had to face their luck on all sorts o’ pitches,
whilst now they get their wickets laid and prepared just like a jolly
old foundation stone.”

It may be that the end justified the means. For certain it is that Miss
Grace’s parent forgot all about his mutilated garden. The old gentleman
sat and beamed. He began to sip his tea and talk of other times.

“Ha!” he sighed, “I envy you young dogs. I _should_ like to have a try
at those Australians!”

“Father’s used to curl in the air, you know,” said his daughter to me
proudly. “They’re very scarce. There’s no man now that can make ’em do
it quite like the Guv’nor--curl one way and break another. ’Fairly gave
the batsman fits. If Charlie could only make ’em do it, he’d be the
biggest terror that ever was. Don’t you think so, Father?”

“I wouldn’t like to say that,” said the modest old gentleman.
Nevertheless there was a tender approval in the eye with which
he regarded the very fine fast bowler, who was so busy with his
strawberries and cream.

“That’s right, sir,” said that young man quite anxiously; “for you
really must not encourage Grace in this curl in the air sort o’ rot,
you know. Whenever she gets me to herself, she whips a ball out of her
pocket and says, ‘Now then, Charlie, let’s have you at it,’ measures
twenty-two yards, and keeps me trying to find out those patent swerves
of yours for about two hours at a stretch.”

“Better be doing that than smoking horrible tobacco, or practising the
push stroke, or reading for the law in a pink paper that’s got the
starting prices in it,” said his sister sternly.

“But I say that the Guv’nor’s leg curl can’t be learnt,” said Charlie.
“I say it has to come by nature.”

“Well,” said his sister, “I don’t care, Charlie, how you have it
come, whether by nature, Pickford’s, or the Parcel Post. But you’ve
got to get it, Charlie. Just think of the value of it to England and
Middlesex. Why, they’d be playing you to leg and have their middles
telescoped like fun wouldn’t they, Father?”

“I think that’s how I used to effect ’em occasionally,” said the old
gentleman, with a twinkle. “It used to be said that the All England
Eleven once called a meeting to discuss how these curly twisters should
be played. Some of ’em would lie awake at nights trying to find out
the scientific way. But I don’t think they ever did. Once I remember
bowling Tom Hayward second ball both innings in one match, and it made
poor Tom so sick that they had to put leeches on his head.”

“Oh, Mr. Dimsdale,” sighed Miss Grace, “I should like you to have seen
old father in his day. That’s why he’s a D.D., you know. Cambridge gave
it him for his bowling.”

“Really!” I said. “Is that a fact?”

“Well,” said the Rector, and I never saw a man look more mischievous,
“I don’t _quite_ think it was for my learning.”

“Toddles,” said Archie, “Oxford’ll elect you to a fellowship if you did
get a Fourth in Mods.”

“Laura,” said the Rector, “let me assure you again that I don’t think
this curl in the air can be acquired. Therefore, I should recommend you
to spend your spare time in more profitable employments. For instance,
playing with a perfectly straight bat, or weeding the garden, or
trying to read Horace without a crib.”

This was Charlie’s opportunity. For a moment that boisterous person
seemed mightily inconvenienced by the Homeric laughter that shook his
being.

“What price Grace,” he cried, “spending her spare time in reading
Horace? Why, she only knows of one chap called Horace in the reading
line, which his other name is Hutchinson.”

“Oh, don’t I though?” said Grace. “I know the Horace father means. A
fat old bounder who was always thirsty; awful fond of wine, he was,
awful fond. Don’t think _he_ was ever in condition. As for his jaw,
it was something frightful. Why, I’ve got a very cultivated literary
taste, haven’t I, Father?”

“Very,” said her parent gently.

“Oh, yes, I can quite believe that the Guv’nor strokes your fur a bit,”
said Archie, whose insight into the human heart was pitiless, “when he
has you in on Saturday evenings and wants to persuade you to fish him
a few quotations out of Bohn. We know where all the embroidery comes
from, don’t we, Toddles?”

“It’s not Bohn, anyhow,” said Miss Grace, “’cause the binding’s better.
Hullo, what’s up with Toddles! Why, he’s choking!”

It required the undivided energies of two strong men to beat the
little curate on the back ere he was restored to a sense of his
responsibilities.

“I think,” said the old gentleman, with sly enjoyment, “that these
revelations are hardly suited to the young miss. Feminine ideals, you
know.”

At this Miss Grace looked keenly about her on every side. “It’s all
serene, Father,” said she. “There’s none o’ the maids about. Don’t
think they can _possibly_ hear us.”

“Laura,” said the old gentleman, hiding the most significant part of
his face in a tea-cup, “I want you to confine yourself in your spare
time to learning to play with a perfectly straight bat. The way in
which you pull everything blindly to leg is a reproach, a disgrace
to the family. You boys ought to be really ashamed of it, and it
grieves me to think that Laura’s self-respect allows her to do it. I’m
wondering if we had Arthur Shrewsbury down for a bit whether he’d be
able to do anything for her.”

“It’s her sex asserting itself,” said Archie. (It should be said at
once that Archie has such an amount of psychology and kindred things
in his mind that he has written a novel for the Keynotes Series.)
“The eternal feminine is not to be repressed. There’s two things
about Grace’s cricket that betrays the woman. One, as the Guv’nor
has remarked, is her deplorable habit of playing everything with
a cross bat; the other is a well-defined tendency to dispute the
umpire’s decisions. Woman-like, she declines to recognise a mere man’s
authority. If it were not for the fear that she’d have been defying Bob
Thoms or some other potentate, and refusing to go out when he gave her
‘petticoat before,’ we might have played her for Middlesex, for her
bowling and fielding all through the season.”

“It’s all jolly fine you men ragging me about my cross bat,” said poor
Miss Grace, whose face had the tawny red of a tea-rose. “But if I was
Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots,
people ’ud say it was a marvellous hook stroke, and the fruit of my
wonderful original method.”

“Yes,” said her enemy of Harrow, “if you were Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or
Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, your picture’d be in the
Jubilee Cricket Book, with you in the act of droppin’ ’em into the
cucumber frame. But as you don’t happen to be Ranjy, or Clem Hill,
or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, but Miss Laura Mary,
the cheekiest girl that ever put her hair in pins, your cross bat is
beastly disgusting, and cruel rough on your people. And if your father
don’t send for Shrewsbury to lick you into shape, we will, because
you’ve got to be broke in, that’s certin. Whenever I think about your
battin’, Laura,--it’s an insult to the Old Man to call you Grace,--it
makes me downright sick.”

“Gentlemen,” said the little parson, rising at this point in the
peroration and speaking in his most clergymanly intonation, “must we
not do our painful duty?”

Whereon five men stood up as one, suddenly took young Tom from
behind, and despite his struggles, bore him bodily to the biggest and
prickliest gooseberry bush in the vicinity. They deposited him on
the top of it, with what appeared unnecessary violence, and when he
wriggled himself off, he brought away a rather uncomfortable quantity
of needles in his epidermis.



CHAPTER XIII

A Case of Heredity


WHEN peace had been restored, Captain George remarked, “_Apropos_ of
the Guv’nor’s curl in the air, it’s very singular and a bit annoying
too that Grace is the only one of us who has developed it. There’s no
doubt that she’s got it. Don’t you think so, sir?”

“Undoubtedly,” said the old gentleman. “And I think it is because she
delivers the ball with a stiff arm, just as I used to do. It’s the
clearest case of heredity that I ever saw.”

“If Grace was not a girl,” said Archie, “she’d be the best bowler in
England to-day. That curl from leg of hers, when it occasionally takes
it into its head to come back from the off after it’s pitched requires
more watching than anything I know.”

“Grace, will you qualify for Kent?” said Carteret.

Miss Grace, although somewhat embarrassed by the praises of these great
men, which caused her to blush most adorably, was supremely happy. It
was honey to her to be considered on her merits as a cricketer.

“I wish this jolly leg curl was Charlie’s instead of mine,” said its
flattered owner in the most unselfish manner. “What use is it to me? If
Charlie’d got it now, Stoddy’d be obliged to take him with him in the
autumn. Or even if that young cub of a Tommy had got it, it might get
him in the county.”

“If the young cub in question can’t get in the county without the help
of a girl,” said the Harrow captain, sore but dignified, “he’d prefer
to stop outside, thank you.”

“Boy,” said the little parson, “you must learn to respect your
elders--sisters especially.”

“But she’s my twin,” said T. S. M.

“She’s older than you, though, ever so much older,” said the oracular
Archie. “Girls don’t begin to grow young until they become women. Only
wait a bit; there’ll come a time when you’ll find yourself years older
than Grace is.”

“But she’s so beas’ly patronisin’,” said poor T. S. M. “She might be a
howlin’ authority on the game, a reg’ler A. G. Steel, or a chap like
that, instead of a beas’ly girl with the cheek of a female journalist.
I’ll admit she’s got a bit o’ book knowledge,--Badminton, and all
that--and can talk like a phonograph, but she’s not going to play the
apostle with me, not if I know it. Her airs are alarmin’. Don’t know
why you men let her rag you, and fag you, and cheek you, and order you
about the show accordin’ to her imperial pleasure. I’m goin’ to kick.
To me that sort o’ thing ain’t at all amusin’. Why at Harrow----”

“Yes, at Harrow,” said the little parson eagerly.

“Yes, at Harrow,” said Archie, with a burning eye.

“Yes, at Harrow,” said every individual person at the table in the
proper order in which he was seated, with strained intensity.

“I can see you’re all under her thumb,” said the unhappy T. S.
M., reddening to the roots of his hair. “She just ruffles it over
everybody, from the Guv’nor to the gardener’s boy. And her ways are
simply howlin’. I brought Billy Jowett, who’s in the same game as me at
Har--, yes, in the same game as me, down here for a week end. And this
nice brought-up sister o’ mine says to him after he’d been here about a
day, ‘I say, Mister Jowett, isn’t it exhaustin’ to have such brilliant
gifts? Your mama is so proud of you, I’m sure, and how brave of her
to let you come so far from home without your governess!’ Well, that
riled Billy so cruel that he just cut back by the next train, and he
says that if I ever ask him to come down again he shall take it as an
insult.”

“That’s luck,” said the unabashed Miss Grace. “The coxey little boy;
and he _was_ such an awfully gifted being! Talked of George Eliot
as though he knew him well. Then he got discussing ‘The Historical
Continuity of the Church of England’ with the Guv’nor, and then ‘The
Inwardness of the Harmsworth Magazine,’ and housetop talk o’ that sort.
Then he got arguing with the Guv’nor--yes, _arguing_, Archie, and once
I’m certain that he contradicted the Guv’nor flat. It just made my
blood _boil_; and when he said, Archie, ‘that he had been told that you
batted rather well,’ I thought it somewhere about time that he had a
hint.”

“He’s the smartest classic in the school, anyhow,” said T. S. M. hotly.
“Greek and Latin prizeman, and all that, and he’s going up to Trinity
next term, and he’s certain to get a fellowship, besides a double blue.”

“He’s big enough bore to get a deanery,” was Miss Grace’s swift answer.

I grieve to say that the whole table, her reverend papa included,
seemed really charmed with this audacious speech.

“Well,” said Harrow’s captain, feeling that the day was going against
him, and therefore losing his head a little, and mixing his metaphors
horribly, “you can curl back into your shell. Your airs won’t wash with
me. And don’t put side on with a pitchfork either, for when all’s
said, you are barely an hour older than I am.”

[Illustration: “‘Hooray! Isn’t A. J. just a darling?’”

  _Willow, the King._]      [_Page 203._]

“Yes, dear Tommy,” said his sister; “but then, you see, I’ve not been
to Harrow.”

The Fates, however, were now kind enough to play into the hands of T.
S. M. It is almost certain else that his mutilated corpse had been
carried from this fatal field. A maid-servant issued from the house
with a pink slip in her hand. She delivered it into the care of the
Harrow captain.

“The boy’s waiting, sir,” said she.

Tom tore off the wrapper. Thereon he was seen to grow noticeably pale,
while he allowed the telegram to flutter from his fingers.

“I say!” he gasped.

Miss Grace pounced on the pink paper like a hawk, and read out its
contents in a voice thrilling with excitement: “You are selected for
Kent match, Monday, Tonbridge. Reply paid, Webbe. Hooray! Hooray! Isn’t
A. J. just a darling!”

The exuberant young person waved the telegram about in such a frantic
manner that she overturned the teapot into the lap of Carteret.

“Terribly sorry, James,” she said breathlessly; “terribly sorry. But
lend me a pencil, somebody, and, Jane, just see that that boy don’t go.”

A pencil being promptly forthcoming, Miss Grace wrote in a hasty but
firm hand on the slip attached: “Shall be very glad to play, Tonbridge,
Monday. T. Trentham.”

“There you are, Jane,” said she; “give that to the boy,” and fishing
half-a-crown from her purse, added, “and this is for him, too.”

“Laura, what unwarrantable extravagance,” said the Rector, looking so
happy that he could scarcely sit still.

“It ’ud be five shillings,” said Miss Grace, “only I want some new
gloves for Tonbridge on Monday. But isn’t it glorious! Isn’t it
tremendous of A. J.! Tommy, I’m _so_ delighted! And didn’t I say from
the first that they wouldn’t pass you over? And you will take me to
Tonbridge, won’t you, Father?”

“I think you are more likely to take me,” said that indulgent man.

The whole-hearted joy of them all was infectious. I might have a dim
idea that my own county had yet to behave in a similar way towards one
whom I held to be peculiarly worthy, but, none the less, I bore my
part in the back thumpings as gallantly as any. The recipient of these
congratulations, talkative to the point of calamity the moment before,
was now in such a state of miserable happiness that he could not find
a word to say. With his eyes fixed modestly on his plate he was white
one minute, and red the next. His sister, however determined a foe she
might be, was most unmistakably delighted. After inserting a strawberry
into Elphinstone’s shirt-collar, not necessarily as a cause of offence,
but rather as a guarantee of her excessive happiness, she ended by
falling on her father bodily, and publicly hugging him.

“Pater,” she said, “you don’t mind, do you? It is so horribly jolly
nice to feel that Tommy’s playing on Monday, isn’t it?”

About five minutes later the Harrow captain became the victim of an
idea.

“’Ought to reply now, I suppose,” he said nervously. “’Wonder if the
boy’s gone. Would you say you’d play? What do you say, sir? What do you
say, Grace? How would you word it? Don’t quite know what to do. Somehow
feel I’m not altogether fit.”

“It’s all right, Tommy; I _have_ replied,” said his sister. “You’re
playing on Monday.”

“It’s beas’ly good of you, old girl,” said her youngest brother.

“What price Harrow’s principles now?” cried Carteret. “Here is the man
who was not going to let his sister play the apostle with him. Wasn’t
he going to let her see!”

“Shut up, James,” said Miss Grace, “else you’ll get some more tea on
your togs. Soon as a fellow plays for the county he gets sense knocked
into him, and grows into a man quite suddenly. Now, Tommy, mind no more
smoking this week; early to bed, you know, not a minute after ten; nice
long morning walks, and, perhaps, a Turkish bath on Saturday. We must
have you like--like a jumping cracker for Monday.”

“Mayn’t I smoke cigarettes?” said the meek Tommy.

“No, not one,” said his tyrannical sister. “And I shall put you on
oysters and beef-tea. Oh, and cod-liver oil.”

“Cod-liver oil?” said the prospective county man. He made a grimace.

“Certainly,” said Miss Grace. “Archie and Charlie take a tablespoonful
a day, don’t you? I simply insist on it, don’t I?”

“Lord, yes!” groaned those great men.

“S’pose _I’ve_ got to have it, then,” said the Harrow captain humbly.

From this it should be seen that county cricket is not quite all beer
and skittles. It has its drawbacks.

The enthusiasm had scarcely had time to die when a solitary figure, in
a grey flannel suit, came through the laurel bushes and over the lawn
to the tumultuous tea-table. It was the Optimist.

“Delighted to see you, my boy,” said the Rector. “Sit down, and get at
those strawberries.”

“One lump or two, Cheery?” said the brisk Grace. “And Tommy’s playing
against Kent on Monday. Isn’t it scrumptious! Toddles, send the cream
along, will you when you’ve taken your blazer out of it? But isn’t it
prime about Tommy?”

“Your fist, old man!” demanded the Optimist. He wrung T. S. M.’s hand
in such a way that it was lucky it was not his bowling arm.

The Optimist, best of good fellows as he was, might have sought for
years to find the highway into Miss Grace’s heart, and yet not have so
nearly found it as he did just then. For his behaviour clearly said,
that if he was not in his own person a great cricketer, none the less
he had a true feeling for the game.

As the champion county had made a moderate score, and Gloucestershire
felt that they therefore could afford to be generous, Brightside was
allowed to bat for Middlesex. Unfortunately, his efforts in the batting
line were of very little service to his side. When the poor chap took
his guard, and then looked up and saw Miss Grace preparing to deliver,
he couldn’t have been in a greater funk had she been Spofforth himself.
One ball transacted his business. It had the paternal curl, and also
“did a bit” as well.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the tender-hearted bowler, as the poor
Optimist’s wicket shed a silent bail; “but it was a good ’un, wasn’t
it? The Old Man’s analysis is three wickets for fourteen. Not so dusty,
is it, for a veteran?”

“Are you counting that broken window a wicket?” asked the victim of Law
Seven, Rectory Rules.

“What do _you_ think?” said W. G. “If I chuck you a ’tice, and it leads
you to take liberties, what do you think, Archie?”

“Why, I think your cheek’s increasing,” said the emphatic Archie.

Grace went in first for Gloucestershire, of course.

“One leg, Biffin, if you please,” said she, bending her brown face
over her bat handle. “Toddles, will you have the goodness to come
from behind the bowler’s arm? Oh, and Biffin, you must not forget
that according to Rule Nine anything above medium is a no-ball. Fast
bowling’s dangerous here, you know, tempts one to hit so hard. Do you
hear that, Charlie?--nothing above medium.”

The best bowler in England was cruel enough to drop in one of his
celebrated “yorkers” to his sister first ball. Even with the most
accomplished defensive batswomen a yorker is always liable to have a
fatal termination. It had in this instance. Crash went Miss Grace’s
middle.

“No-ball!” yelled the umpire, just in the nick of time.

“Got that no-ball down to Gloucester, Father?” cried the imperturbable
Grace to her parent who sat scoring under a willow tree, a safe
distance away. “Oh, and Biffin, I think I’d better have two leg, I was
bit inside that one, wasn’t I?” The way in which she lifted a bail and
scraped the crease was W.G. to the manner born. “And, Toddles, _can’t_
you keep from dancing behind the bowler’s arm?”

If the best bowler in England thought he was going to catch his
sister napping a second time he was the victim of a grievous error.
His yorkers had no terrors for her now. She got her bat down to every
individual one, and had the temerity to block one so hard that she
scored a single off it. She played a watchful and not altogether
unscientific game, and despite the fact that three men were on the
onside watching the case on behalf of the cucumber frame, she caused
the bowling to be changed four times, and stayed in fifty minutes for
sixteen. And the manner of her dismissal was decidedly unlucky. The
gallant Artilleryman going on with his lobs as a last resource, his
sister was no longer able to restrain her ardent soul: she got in a
really fine straight in the manner of her brother Archie, whereon
running in hard from the library windows, the little parson effected
one of the finest catches ever witnessed on the Rectory lawn.

Contrary to expectation the finish was desperately close. Through
my ignorance of the ground I had the misfortune to be run out for
a duck. Toddles, who succeeded, shaped beautifully, his wrist work
and knife-like cutting being a theme for general admiration. After
contributing three singles and a two, however, he lost his wicket in
a somewhat humiliating way. Grace, fielding mid-off, had by no means
forgiven him for his wonderful catch, and was evidently, to judge
by her concentrated look, biding her time. Presently, the little
parson smashed one right at her all along the carpet at a great pace.
Mid-off’s disturbed expression, and the quick way in which she turned
round apparently to pursue, clearly indicated that she had been guilty
of misfielding, and had allowed the ball to pass her. The unsuspecting
Toddles started for a run, whereon the fieldsman like a flash of light
produced the missing ball from the infinite recesses of her skirts,
returned it hard and true, and the wicket-keeper had the little parson
out by about two yards.

“I’ll teach you to refuse Halliday, and then take me, when you wouldn’t
a’ got to mine at all if you hadn’t been such a quick-footed little
brute,” cried Mid-off in triumph.

Although it was one of the most flagrant cases of deception that either
Middlesex or Gloucestershire had ever seen practised, the unfortunate
Toddles had undoubtedly received his _quietus_.

“Just the sort o’ thing a girl would do,” said T. S. M. “Beas’ly bad
form, I call it.”

“Let this be a warning to you, Tommy,” said Miss Grace, who actually
seemed to be exulting in her act. “As you’re so young, Kent’s certain
to try it on Monday. Toddles will, for one.”

“It’s worse than the Cambridge no-ball dodge,” said Carteret, coming in
last man to bat.

The finish proved exciting to a degree. Carteret was a first-class
bat in every way, who had a fine eye, and came down very hard on the
ball. Despite the correctness of the fielding, and the fine length that
Charlie kept, Gloucestershire won by one wicket.

As W. G. led the victorious eleven back to the remains of the
strawberries and cream, our representative understood the Champion to
remark:--

“I’ve said all along that this very toney, classy Middlesex team had
only got to be tackled fair for the stitches to come undone, and the
sawdust to begin to trickle. Two lickings in succession’s pretty thick,
ain’t it, Stoddy? You two’ll stay to dinner of course?”

“Charmed,” said I promptly. And then in a judicious aside to George,
“But what price togs? Riding breeches and a flannel shirt, don’t you
know!”

“Don’t fag with dressing when we’re on our own, do we boys,” said the
consummate Grace, who had an alertness that was as perfect as her
frankness. “The Guv’nor’s good as gold, especially in summer. It’s only
when the Bishop brings his Mary, or there’s a bit of a slap-up dinner
party on, which I sometimes let the Guv’nor have if his behaviour’s
been very beautiful, well then, of course, we have to buck up a bit,
and try to look pretty.”

“Ever so easy in your case,” said I.

Alas! it fell on perfectly deaf ears.



CHAPTER XIV

In which I am more Sinned against than Sinning


WHILE eight men were scrubbing themselves in the bath-room prior to the
dinner bell, their behaviour, as is only too usual when eight men are
trying to do the same thing at the same time, was not too lady-like.
Their talk also was breezy and of a rather penetrating kind.

“If Brightside’s not here to-night with intent,” said Elphinstone, in
his slow, clerical sing-song, in the middle of a free fight round a
bath-towel, “you can call me American. I’ve been looking at Brightside,
and I’m certain that he meditates making a silly ass of himself.”

“Do you, Brightside?” I cried, with deep feeling.

“Oh, damn,” said the Optimist coarsely. But his complexion was becoming
a fine tawny.

“He’s going through with it to-night though, if it kills him,” said the
wicked little parson.

“More likely to kill her,” said Carteret.

“Matter of opinion,” said the little parson: “but one can’t help
respecting Brightside. No earthly and all that, he knows, but I’m
certain that he’s going to cause Grace to become a sister to him.”

“So there!” said Carteret.

“We call ’em the Bougheys, you know,” said the wicked little parson,
in a disgustingly confidential tone, “in affectionate remembrance of
that noble idiot over the way. ’Comes here every fortnight now to get
Grace’s opinion as to what marl he should put on his wickets in the
winter, and whether in her opinion grass seeds are superior to new
turf, or _vice versa_. She’s a sister to him, his step-sister, his
sister-in-law, his deceased wife’s sister, his aunt, his grandmother,
his niece, his cousin, his second cousin; and our dear, delightful
Grace now spends her time in inventing new relationships, as she’s
quite used up the Prayer-book. Last time he came she promised to be his
Prussian cousin. I don’t doubt that in the end she’ll be his murderess.
Isn’t it a pity that the English aristocracy has no sense of humour?
And from what that man Comfort told me at lunch, I rather fear that
Dimsdale is also to have an attack of incipient dam silliness.”

“It’s coming; I can feel it,” said I, with brazen effrontery. “Brown
holland’s kept me awake all night; and the encouraging part of it is, I
feel as though I shall never sleep again until I’ve converted myself
into a form of common amusement.”

“Well, here’s my sympathy, old man,” said Charlie, hurling a missile at
me, which I mistakenly thought was nothing more serious than a loofah.
But the moment it crashed against my cheek-bone I suddenly arrived at
the conclusion that there must be a cake of brown Windsor carefully
wrapped inside it.

It is rather a pity that I don’t wield the pen of Truthful James,
considering what transpired when I mistakenly attempted to discuss the
matter with the man who had thrown the soap. But as Charlie had the
brute force of a bullock, and didn’t know his strength, in less than a
minute I was very sorry that I had chosen to grapple with him. Had it
not been that the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone, who was really a most intrepid
little man, used his feet and elbows freely, at the crucial moment, on
the best bowler in England’s sacred person, I should have been killed
undoubtedly.

When the interested bystanders had repaired these breaches of the peace
by a liberal application of cold water and hard epithets, the bell
summoned us to dinner. We were in no position to obey it, however,
until I had borrowed a collar from Charlie to replace the one that he
had torn in two, and until my brave friend, the little parson, had
changed his shirt, as the one that now adorned him had been exceeding
mutilated. Charlie himself, who was as hard as steel, and wiry as a
mustang, was much as he was before this lamentable affair, except that
he was now breathing through his mouth instead of through his nose.

“There’s really no hurry, Toddles, you know,” said Archie, while that
ornament of the Church sponged the blood from his teeth. “It’s only
ten minutes since the bell went, and if there’s one thing the Guv
does thoroughly enjoy, it is for a curate to come between him and his
dinner. And it would make us all so sorrowful if you were to forfeit
his high opinion, for we all feel that you will never be able to impose
on anybody else. Besides, you won’t be in time to say the grace, you
bloody little ruffian!”

Despite this prediction, however, the Rector continued to be courtesy
itself. No doubt this was his habit, as he certainly possessed some
magnetic quality that caused his high-spirited family to regard him
with affectionate awe. Miss Grace, herself the highest spirited of them
all, might be said to worship him. In the words of Archie, “The Guv’nor
might be the inventor of cricket,” such was the estimation in which his
daughter held him. As for that adorable person, she was apparently as
much at home in the dining-room as in the tented field. She could play
the hostess as easily as she could play the game. She indicated the
course of the talk with a brisk tact that would have commended itself
to the professional hostesses of Carlton House Terrace, and in her
_décolleté_ white silk looked an angel, if a somewhat highly developed
one. Her bowling arm was particularly noticeable, but that didn’t
bother her a bit. It might be that Miss Grace’s amiability enabled us
to dispense with our war-paint, but Miss Grace’s sex absolutely forbade
her to dispense with hers.

“Any of you men thought of the Sillenger yet?” she began with the soup.
“Fancy ‘Kensit’ myself rather.”

“I’ve a leaning towards ‘Helbeck of Bannisdale,’” said the little
curate.

“Naturally,” Miss Grace said. “But he wasn’t even placed in the Derby.
You take my tip, Toddles, he’s a rotter.”

“Laura,” said the Rector, “I am very sorry to hear you employ such
an amount of slang. In my opinion it is a most offensive habit,
particularly in women.”

“Well, you see, Father,” said his ingenuous daughter, “it’s a short way
of saying a lot. Besides, the boys use it.”

“Boys are barbarians,” said her parent.

“Oh, they are,” said Miss Grace. “Well, I think barbarians aren’t
half bad. Anyhow, I like what they like, so I s’pose I’m a bit of a
barbarian too.”

“Jennings,” said Archie, “serve the claret cup, quick! Grace, we’re
going to drink your thundering good health.”

We drank it with rare cordiality. The poor, dear Optimist who was
seated at my side had such an agitated hand that a portion of the
contents of his glass overflowed upon the cloth.

“You’ve spilt your luck,” said Toddles, in a melancholy undertone.

The Optimist’s condition was indeed to be deplored. The meal was wholly
excellent in its unpretentiousness; yet here was this young man, who
knew what dining was, utterly unable to appreciate his chance. The way
in which he toyed with and disdained fare that could meet the needs
of a parson with a palate was tragical indeed. As for me, I was in a
humour of sheer devilry. Now I have no wish to bristle with wise saws
and modern instances, or even to be suspected of an epigram, but it
always seems to me that when emotion overtakes him, a man is either
an ox or a giddy ox. I am the latter, and I think when I come to be
hanged that I shall go to the gallows whistling. For such is the amount
of coarse, brutal, downright British bull-dog that has gone to the
formation of my character, that I was able to eat, drink, and let my
soul flow at the festive board, well knowing that those indescribably
subtle symptoms that had been born so recently within me were growing
more inconvenient hour by hour. Looking at the glorious Miss Grace,
and the fine figure of a girl she made, and comparing her to the two
very, very average men who were in imminent danger, if you will please
pardon the outworn image, of fluttering to their doom like moths;
comparing her, I say--oh, hang it, what do I say? But there, Impatient
Reader, you know what makes my mind so mixed, and why it’s muddling my
prose. Or if you don’t, I think you will know, one day, since there
comes a moment in the career of every average man--oh, what _am_ I
saying?--really, Reader, I had no intention to be rude!--when the sense
of one’s own indescribability is really so indescribable that one must
feel it before it can be felt--oh damn!

Reader, I am sure I beg your pardon. But you understand me, don’t you?
To-night I had dwindled into the condition that I have so lucidly
described. Here was I, a mere cub, with only a big appetite and the
most animal health to recommend me, looking down a dinner-table towards
the One Girl in the World. True, I had sound lungs, a nice wrist for
cutting, an eye as clear as Grace’s own, and was mercifully free of
the curse of intellect in any form whatever; but surely even such fine
attributes as these are not too princely when laid at the feet of the
Goddess. No doubt Richard Cranford Dimsdale was a pretty harmless sort
of fellow, but an astonishing quantity of harmlessness goes to the
making of a husband.

Above all, I knew these speculations to be cheek of the worst kind; but
if a horrid, impish little clergyman sits opposite, and regards one
with a gaze of pure, rapturous pity, and talks in a holy undertone of
that man Comfort, and what that man Comfort said, and what a privilege
it is to converse with a person of his polished manners and width of
outlook, it is not always possible for one to marshal one’s meditations
into the channels of decency. As for the poor, dear Optimist, he
suffered to a like extent from the indefatigable Toddles. The cheerful
wretch writhed through the meal, and, of course, the moment he tried
to deliver a kick under the table to Toddles, he fetched the Rector
a crack on the knee. But in the matter of our peerless hostess, the
Optimist and I effusively agreed with one another that we were both
equally impossible. We were simply indulging in the dangerous amusement
of skating over thin ice just for the pleasure of hearing it crack,
and the cold water gurgle under our feet. The Optimist has long been
regarded as a past master in the art of partaking of unexpected joys.
It is recorded of him that he has been known to tip an umpire after
being leg before, and to make a pun on being run out.

Dessert over, Miss Grace withdrew. Immediately afterwards the Rector
retired to his den.

“What’s it to be--‘pills’ or poker?” said Charlie, as the rest of us
lingered over the coffee and cigars.

“Brightside looks so quietly happy,” said Toddles at last audible to
all, “that to begin with, he might minister to the enjoyment of life by
standing on his head, or otherwise making his ecstasy articulate. He
looks like one who has built a philosophy upon his sorrow.”

Never, ere now, had I seen the Optimist positively strain after
cheerfulness. It was an impressive sight. But is it not strange the
vast difference there is in the constitution of the most common men?
For I was indecently hilarious. I laughed myself to tears over my own
stories, unblushing chestnuts as they were.

“For your information, Brightside,” said the little parson, “Grace is a
good girl, who goes to bed at ten. It is now nine-twenty. Therefore if
you desire to compliment her to-night, you’ve got to buck up!”

“Do you men take me for a common jay?” said the Optimist. “Do you think
I don’t know exactly how big I bulge in this great universe? Not for J.
Brightside, thank you. If he were going out with Stoddart, it might be
otherwise; but his batting’s really too steep!”

“Brightside,” said the persevering little parson, “we’re deceived in
you. We thought you were a man with g--,--with an interior.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” the Optimist said; “but I recognise my
limitations, thank you. Don’t fancy myself a Ranjy quite.”

“But women are that funny,” said the little parson, “one don’t know
exactly how they’ll act.”

“You mayn’t,” said the Optimist. “I do. They leave undone the things
they ought to have done, and do the things they ought not to have done.”

“Grace’ll accept you then!” said Carteret. He had the air of a man who
has found himself out in saying a smart thing.

Impatient Reader, I am aware that this is very impossible considered
as talk, and very contemptible considered as wit; but even county
cricketers can do no better in a dry season. The long spells of
fielding are too much, even for their magnificent physiques. It must be
admitted that in very wet years, such as ’79 and ’88, when the bowlers
have made hay, they are occasionally heard to quote Mrs. Humphry Ward,
Mr. Hall Caine, and poor dear Mr. Shakespeare. At all other times their
quotations can be traced to the _Pink ’Un_.

Finding that there had been a “slump” in the Optimist’s courage, the
mischievous little parson was good enough to honour me with some
attention.

“My dear Dimsdale,” he purred, “we are hoping that for the honour of
Little Clumpton you’re not going to funk.”

“Hickory’ll lay five to two he does,” said Carteret.

“Oh, if you are going to make it a sort of international affair,”
said I protestingly. But all the same these cunning men were trapping
me. And to crown all, the one person I counted on to lend me his aid,
betrayed me basely and played into the hands of the other side.

“My dear chap,” the benevolent Optimist said, “I’ve known Grace from
her earliest youth, but I am perfectly willing to waive the priority
of my claim. Perfectly willing, as I cannot too explicitly state. I
recognise my limitations. But you, my dear Dimsdale, are one of those
big-gutted Britons who runs this little earth, the sun, the moon, and
the planetary system for the private amusement of himself and a few of
his English friends. You are of the fibre to go in and win.”

“Besides, we’ve all great confidence in Little Clumpton in the
ultimate,” said the complimentary little parson; “and we know that when
Dimsdale gets his blood up he’s the doggedest swashbuckler that ever
said, ‘What ho!’”

The effusiveness of my aiders and abettors made me squirm.

“You’ve got to do it now,” said the Optimist. “Since the affair has
become another Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, you must do something for
your side, you know, particularly as you were the only single figure
man yesterday.”

“Must try and get into the doubles, old chap,” said the little parson
coaxingly.

“Deuced pleasant outlook,” said I. “Shouldn’t care if I’d played for
the county once; but a mere club-man--ugh!”

“She may be rather rude,” said Toddles. “Cool cheek makes some girls
stick their fur up. Or she mayn’t, of course. Might let you down ever
so gently, as she’s had a lot of experience.”

“A word in your ear,” said the Optimist. “Whatever you do, don’t play
the goose game. Hard slogging’s the sort o’ thing for Grace. That’s
where that owl, Boughey, always comes such a cropper. Will spread
himself so.”

“Boughey will lisp in numbers, you know,” said Carteret. “Overflows
with it, the idiot! and makes old Grace so riled that she chucks the
beautiful calf-bound poetry books he brings her regularly at his head.
I’ve seen Boughey come out bleeding in other places than his heart.
Whatever you do, my gallant, give a wide berth to the Bodlihead.”

“Your views are a great privilege, I’m sure,” said I.

Truth to tell, the more I saw of their game, the less I liked it. My
sentiments, to which the wretched Comfort had given such an unpleasant
publicity, were doubtless receiving this amount of attention that the
conspirators might score all round. They were certainly scoring off me,
and the idea came into my head that they were scoring off Miss Grace’s
brothers also. For that quartette smoked with a steady enjoyment that
was designed to show their complete indifference to the topic under
discussion. Judging by the excessive disinterestedness of their mien,
they were not even aware of its delicate character.

“Devilish well-bred of you fellows to be so full of _dolce far
niente_,” said the unblushing barrister. “Quite the right thing, of
course; but we do wish you’d be rather more keenly alive to your
responsibilities. Your knowledge of Grace’s pretty little ways under
fire might be simply invaluable to Dimsdale. Simply _invaluable_. And
you know you would never forgive yourselves if our ingenuous Dimsdale
got badly mauled through lacking that expert advice that you are so
well qualified to give him.”

“What’s the speech about, Jimmy?” asked Archie. “Is it on Ritualism, or
are you practising the art of addressing the jury?”

“This intellectual obsession is sad,” said Toddles. “Dimsdale has
decided to propose to Grace, who we have reason to believe is a
connection of yours. We are now forming ourselves into a committee
that has for its object the protection of Dimsdale. The problem we are
called upon to settle at this stage is, whether it would be safer for
him to prosecute his addresses in a suit of mail, or is she likely to
be sufficiently overawed if he goes armed with a six-shooter only.
Archie, the committee would be glad to have your views.”

“Dimsdale,” said that oracle, turning to me, “I don’t know who’s put
you up to this, but whoever they are they’re not humane.”

“They ought to be kicked,” said George.

“He’s in a big enough funk already, without you men doing your little
bit,” said the Optimist.

Everybody, with one exception, was enjoying the fun immensely. I was
the exception. It is not nice to be at the mercy of one’s intimates.
But now by some mysterious means I was delivered into their hands.
One can scarcely expect the average man to join in the laugh against
himself in such circumstances. They were so delicate. Indeed, only
rude coarse men would be capable of creating them. And to a person of
sensibility, they were aggravated by the presence of Grace’s arrogant
male relations. Never a doubt that they were arrogant. They, in common
with the conspirators, seemed quite unable to treat me with respect.
And at least I thought that that justice should be granted to me,
for a man who has been awake all night feels entitled to some little
consideration.

“Sir Knight,” said the little parson, “I would fain remind thee that
’tis now nine-forty by this my good chronometer. Twenty minutes hence
the divinity retireth.”

This specific mention seemed to lend additional flavour to their chaff.
They were getting up my blood. And when that is thoroughly aroused, I
enjoy the character of being a somewhat headstrong person. Therefore
when at a quarter to ten I discarded my cigar, finished my coffee, and
quietly announced that I was going to face the music, they ought not to
have been as staggered as they were.

“What now?” they shouted.

“_Oui, oui_,” said I, stepping to the door.

“Look here,” said the alarmed Archie, “this is beyond a joke.”

“By, by,” said I; “see you later.”

“Look here,” said Miss Grace’s military brother, “no dam foolery,
Dimsdale. Sit down and finish your cigar. Toddles, if you don’t hold
your tongue I’ll choke you. This has gone too far.”

“I’ll lay a ‘pony’ that Dimsdale don’t do it,” said Carteret.

“Done,” said I.

“You can call that ‘pony’ squandered, Jimmy,” said the Optimist, with
tears of gladness in his eyes.

“Isn’t it gaudy?” said the little parson rapturously. “Isn’t it
ger-lor-i-ous?”

But even at this late hour I don’t think any of them quite realized the
finality of my resolve. For when I got so far as to open the door, they
were one and all so thunderstruck that they could not say a word. It
was only when with an assumption of bravado that I flippantly commended
myself to their prayers, and walked out of the room, that they set up
a positive howl of laughter. I am not sure, though, whether it was not
rather hollow.

As for myself, I might have a dim consciousness that my folly was
colossal, yet this in no wise deterred me. If I am at any time goaded
into action, no matter how indefinite its nature, it is no part of
my character to stop halfway; therefore it was in a devil-may-care,
hands-in-the-pockets, two-o’clock-in-the-morning fashion that I
sauntered into the library, incredibly impudent of mien.



CHAPTER XV

Facing the Music


MISS GRACE was seated at the table under the lamp, and I was a trifle
discomfited to find that a very palpable frown was disfiguring her
mobile brow.

“Nineteen from forty-one, quick!” she cried, without looking up. And as
I answered, after due thought, “Twenty-three, I mean twenty-four; no, I
mean twenty-two,” she lifted her head to say,--

“Thanks so much”; and added, “Hullo! it’s you, is it, Dimmy? Don’t mind
me calling you Dimmy, do you? Rather a nice easy, slipping kind of a
name is Dimmy, isn’t it, Dimmy? Besides, I can’t always be saying Mr.,
can I? as though I were a pro.”

“If you’ll allow me to call you Grace,” said I, “that’ll be all right.”

“You can call me anything you just please,” said she, “as long as it
isn’t Laura. I hate Laura.”

“I have known some very pretty Lauras,” said I.

“Now look here, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace fiercely, “how on earth can I
bring the first-class averages up to date if you keep talking? Stanley
Jackson’s in a frightful tangle as it is. If you want a book, take it
and cut, and close the door quietly.”

“Sorry,” said I, “horribly sorry. But may I help you?”

“Awfully glad if you would,” said she. “I shall never get done
to-night. Oh, hang it! the wire from the Oval’s not here yet. Confound
’em!”

Approaching the table, I was now able to observe what her occupation
was. She was busily engaged in deducing facts and figures from a litter
of telegrams, and transferring them to formidable sheets of foolscap.
My look was too perplexed to be ignored.

“Rather a good idea,” she explained. “As we can’t get an evening paper
in these parts, anyhow, we arrange for ‘the close of the day’s play’ to
be wired from the county grounds.”

“Why don’t you wait for the morning papers?” I asked.

“Morning papers, indeed!” said Miss Grace witheringly. “How do you
s’pose I’m going to get to sleep if I don’t know what the boys have
done? Why, Archie might have bagged a brace, or Charlie might have got
his hundred.”

“I didn’t think of that,” I said penitently. “But surely it’s not
absolutely necessary for you to work out the averages every night, when
by the payment of the ridiculously inadequate sum of one penny you can
get trained journalists to do it for you?”

“Oh, I like to be knowing,” she said. “It’s not absolutely necessary,
of course, but I can’t rest somehow till I’ve got the principal men
reckoned up to date. That little beggar Bobby Abel will keep trying
to get his nose in front of Archie, and then Albert Ward and Gunn
are always treading on his heels. Then Tom Richardson and Briggs are
putting in all they know to knock Charlie off his perch. It’s not all
jam, I can tell you, having brothers who are such tremendous swells.
All the world will keep looking at ’em, and if one of ’em’s a bit below
himself, out comes the _Daily Chronicle_ with a picture in five colours
of A. H. Trentham’s deplorable exhibition at Old Trafford yesterday,
and yarns of that sort. It comes jolly hard on a girl, I can tell you,
Dimmy, if you’ve kept ’em on brine baths and a training diet all the
week, and then one of ’em goes and blots his copy-book like that.”

“From what I hear,” said I, “it’s nothing but your diligence and
motherly behaviour to ’em that’s made ’em as famous as they are.”

“I don’t say that,” remarked the modest Grace, but her expression said
that this judicious statement was not unpleasing. “But I deserve a
little bit of credit for their fame. The amount of watching that they
take is something awful; Charlie in particular. At times Charlie’s just
heart-breaking. Sometimes I can’t sleep for thinking of him!”

Had the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods been just
then in my place and heard his sister’s long-drawn sigh and seen her
pronounced tendency to tears, I’m certain that that robust sinner would
have gone down on his knees before her and prayed for a remission of
his sins. I think I never was more touched.

“What a shame!” said I.

“He’s so careless,” she said; “can’t restrain himself, you know; and he
don’t feel his responsibilities a bit. He don’t care a pin about his
average. ’Might be the ordinaryest bowler that ever was, instead of
Charlie Trentham. Bought him a Whiteley exerciser for his birthday, but
he uses all his spare time in whistling and playing ‘pills,’ instead of
getting up his muscle and his stamina.”

“He must be a great trial,” said I, working the sympathetic vein for
all that it was worth. I think, though, the Great Trial would have had
a fit had he been privileged to hear me.

“Yes, Dimmy, that’s exactly what he is--he is a trial,” said poor
Miss Grace. “If he’d only got a bit of head, I wouldn’t care. He’s
got the courage of a lion, never knows when he’s licked and all that,
and his muscles are just lovely; but as for intellect, you’ve only
got to treat him to a drink to make him your friend for ever. And I
don’t think he knows what two and two make, either. Here’s an instance
now: he actually invites down that wicked little Toddles, when he’s
going to play for Middlesex against Kent on Monday. And what does that
wicked little Toddles do? Like the giddy goat I am, I didn’t sit up
and see ’em all to bed, as I mean to do to-night, but left ’em up with
a promise of ‘We shan’t be long.’ But weren’t they! Well, I lay awake
and listened for ’em, but never heard a sound. When the clock struck
two, I got up and dressed, and came down to see what they were up to.
There were those three beautiful brothers o’ mine, who are playing
against Kent on Monday, having a hand at poker with Jimmy Carteret,
whilst the Rev. Mr. Toddles, if you please, was mixing their drinks.
An owl would see the Rev. Mr. Toddles’s little game. He means to have
Charlie as stale as anything by Monday, and Archie’s liver wrong.
But I told Master Curate precisely what I thought about him, and gave
him the straight tip, too, that if he did manage to get the boys
crocked for Monday, he should have a pretty thick dose of Keating’s
vermin-killer in his soup, the little insect! Yes,” she concluded, with
grim determination, “if I never get to bed at all, I’ll see that there
are no more larks like this to-night. In my opinion, Dimmy, all men are
blackguards!”

“Oh, my dear Grace!” I cried, with a face of agony.

“No, old chap, I didn’t mean quite that,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I
hope I’ve not hurt you.”

Her penitence was charming.

Now I could see that she was much distressed in mind in regard to
the behaviour of her wayward charges. She was longing for a little
sympathy. What a golden opportunity! How the Fates were playing into my
hands!

“My dear Grace,” said I, “you are much too good to these ungrateful
beggars.”

“They are not ungrateful, and they are not beggars,” said their sister;
“they’re awful good sorts, every one of ’em, and don’t you dare to say
they’re not, Dimmy, or you and I’ll quarrel. It’s Toddles who’s so bad.”

“Toddles is a little pig,” said I, feeling the repulse was terrible,
and yet striving to retreat in good order.

“Oh no, he’s not,” said Miss Grace; “that’s just where you’re wrong.
Toddles is a dear little chap. I just love Toddles. It’s only his fun.”

“Just a girl all over!” I cried, my patience ending in the masculine
manner with a snap; “just a girl. Say one thing and mean another;
contradict themselves ten times in as many ticks, and then blame us for
failing to understand ’em.”

“Don’t you get excited, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace; “but get on with your
work. Just check those Brighton figures, will you? There, you’ve gone
and got Billy Murdoch down forty-seven instead o’ forty-three; and
you’ve missed Georgie Brann out altogether.”

“I call that cool,” said I, “seeing that you copied ’em out yourself.”

“Well, didn’t I tell you to check ’em?” said she. “Now look here,
Dimmy, either drop your rotting, and buckle to, or just clear out and
leave me on my own.”

“I _will_ be good,” said I meekly.

But really my position was ludicrous. I had been with her twenty
minutes already, yet my high purpose had not been even broached. I had
missed several chances. I felt my brazenness to be subsiding. If I
didn’t make a start at once, I should get into a funk, and smirch the
name of Little Clumpton and become the common mock of Hickory. Yet how
could I begin? Any little bravado I might have had at the start was
already slain by the sense of the egregious errors I had committed. The
only course open was to fall back on my nationality. Was it not lucky
that I prided myself on my Anglo-Saxon fibre and directness? Let me say
what I meant exactly. Hard slogging, and not the goose game, as became
a Briton, don’t you know.

“Now then, Dimmy,” said Miss Grace, “the Bristol figures are not on the
ceiling; they’re on the table. Just call ’em out while I dot ’em down.
Go on.”

“Grace, senior,” I read, “not out, one hundred and sixty-eight. Oh, and
that reminds me, Grace, that I’ve got something serious to say.”

“Of course,” said she; “but you look what you’re doing, or I shall have
something serious to say as well.”

“Grace,” said I, standing up, “I’ve got something extremely serious to
say.”

That young person put her pencil down so gently that the restraint she
used was noticeable. The light in her eye made me quiver.

“Grace,” said I, and came to a sudden stop. Yes, sitting down was
decidedly better. It didn’t seem so formal, and your legs didn’t feel
so wobbly. I sat down accordingly. “Grace,” said I once more; and then
my throat went wrong, and I had to pause and cough.

“Yes,” said Grace meekly, “I s’pose my name’s Grace. Go on, Dimmy;
it’s ever so interesting. But if it’s a joke, Dimmy, it’s not at all
obvious. Just read those Bristol figures out, there’s a good chap.”

I picked up the telegram again, and called out solemnly,--

“R. C. Dimsdale, bowled Grace, none.”

Miss Grace’s steady gaze went through me, then came back and went
through me again.

“Look here, Dimmy,” she said, with a deliberation that was both
incisive and well weighed, “I’m not going to be ragged like this by you
or anybody else. Give me that wire, and now you just cut. When I _want_
to be bored, I read _Punch_.”

It was evident by the rigidity of her countenance that she saw not the
remotest connection between what I had said and the terribly great
matter that was overbalancing my mind.

“I must explain,” said I doggedly.

“I don’t think you will,” said she gravely; “that thing with a handle
to it, Dimmy, is called a door. If you open it, you will see the way
out the other side.”

“Thanks so much,” said I; “but then, you see, I’m not going. I’ve got
so much to say, Grace, that really----”

“My dear Dimmy,” she interrupted, “if you would only tell me where
it hurts you, I might give you a pick-me-up or something to set you
straight.”

“It is in your power,” said I.

“That’s all right,” said Grace cheerfully; “now let’s have it. If it’s
a cold, it’s compo; if it’s sleeplessness, it’s potassium bromide; if
it’s nerves, it’s rest; if it’s a strain, it’s Elliman.”

“It’s a strain,” said I.

“Good old strain!” said Grace. “Thought it must be a strain.”

“Of the heart!” said I.

“Next, please,” said Grace. “Whoever heard of a chap straining his
heart? Why, Charlie, who lams ’em down like anything, has never
strained his heart.”

“He has not my delicate organization, you see,” said I. “He’s as strong
as a bullock, and just about as susceptible. I, my dear Grace, am much
more delicately constituted. In fact, my dear Grace, in fact----”
Emotion drowned, however, what was to have been a nicely rounded period.

Miss Grace sighed, set down her pencil for the second time, propped her
chin on her hands, and said with almost tearful resignation, “What
_are_ you saying, Dimmy?”

I rose to my feet, for, after all, that was the better way, as in a
sitting posture one was unable to obtain the fierce energy that this
miserable business undoubtedly demanded. Therefore, springing to my
feet, I said,--

“I mean just this, Grace. You’ve gone and bowled me neck and heels.”

“Why, you said just now,” said she, “that you had strained your heart.”

“Yes,” said I, eagerly but crudely, “my heart’s strained as well. And
you’ve gone and clean bowled me. Now put two and two together, Grace.
Surely you must see what I mean.”

“No, I’ll go to Klondyke if I do,” said Grace, in despair. “Your heart
strained--clean bowled. No, I’ll go to Klondyke if I do! Is it a
riddle?”

“A riddle,” said I, much hurt. “Oh, my dear Grace, if you only knew how
serious I am! I’ll own that I’m not expressing myself very clearly.
Hang it! a fellow’s not used to this sort o’ thing. I know I’m a
blithering ass, you know. Oh, Grace, dash it all! you must see what I
mean!”

“Blithering ass!” murmured Grace, as if to herself. “You _are_ getting
a bit more enlightening, Dimmy.”

“No, no,” I said hastily; “you’re on the wrong tack. That’s not what I
want you to see. You know! you know!”

“Dimmy,” said Grace, with her marvellous blue eyes getting wider, “I
shall be downright annoyed with you in a minute. You say I know when I
don’t know; and when I do know, you say that I don’t know. If this is a
rag, Dimmy, it’s very wicked of you, ’cause my time’s occupied. These
jolly averages’ll never get done to-night. Do be a good boy and go.
There, I’ve put the Old Man down wrong! Dimmy, I shall be most horribly
angry in a minute.”

“Oh, drop this bally cricket!” I cried. “Do try to think of serious
things a little, Grace; do try to think of what _I’m_ saying. I do wish
you’d attend to what a fellow’s saying, and help him out a bit.”

“I’d help you out with great pleasure, Dimmy, very great pleasure,
I can assure you, Dimmy,” she said, “if I’d only got a boot like
Charlie’s.”

“Oh, Grace!” I cried, “how obtuse you are!”

“That’s it, call me names,” said she.

Here a dreadfully painful silence came. It was only disturbed by the
aggressive behaviour of my heart and the scratching of Miss Grace’s
pencil. Never in my life had I felt such an unmitigated ruffian, and
certainly never a more uncompromising idiot. Doesn’t it seem absurd,
considering the amount of totally unnecessary things one learns at
school--Latin, Greek, and so forth--that the gentlemen of England are
utterly untrained in one of the most complex and delicate sciences that
ever has to be practised by the human male? Oh, for a few of the most
rudimentary hints as to how to conduct a proposal! Lord! what _is_ a
fellow to do when the object of his passion is busily occupied with the
preparation of cricket averages, and not paying the least attention to
his distraught manner, or the gentle hints conveyed in his conversation?

There was the wretched Grace, apparently overjoyed at this lull in
the proceedings, jotting down figures with a haste that can only be
described as feverish, tossing telegrams about and looking really
dangerous to talk to. Very encouraging state of affairs, considering
that the sum total of my eloquence was spent already. But the Briton in
me, after a two minutes’ interval, set doggedly to work once more.

“Grace,” I re-opened, “I’m not a county man an’ all that, you know. I’m
not a Stoddy or a Ranjy, you know. Not a W. G., you know. I’m not a
Toddles or an Archie, you know. You know that, Grace, don’t you?”

“Oh, rats!” said Grace, figuring away more feverishly than ever.

“Ah, but it’s not rats,” said I. “It’s not rats at all. It’s far too
serious for rats, I can assure you, Grace. It’s something _very_
serious, Grace.”

“That’s all right,” said Grace, with supreme indifference; and then,
biting her pencil and puckering up her brow, she said: “How many times
does fourteen go into ninety-seven? Quick!”

“I’m not a ready-reckoner,” said I indignantly.

“You are a jolly rotter, Dimmy, that’s what you are,” said Grace
urbanely.

“Thanks,” said I; “how nice!” Then, having felt the spur a bit, I took
a headlong plunge almost before I knew what I was about. “Grace,” said
I, “will you be my wife?”

“I’ll be your anything,” said Grace, without looking up, and continuing
her pencilling, “if you’ll just have the goodness to clear out and pull
the door to gently. O-oh, I say! The Old Man’s average is forty-three
now. He’s gone up nine places. He’s in front of Ranjy.”

I beat my boots on the carpet incontinently. If this was the usual
style of a girl when a man pays her the highest compliment within his
power, God help all of us, say I.

“Grace,” said I weakly, “I hope you’re listening.”

“Hullo!” said Grace, searching frantically among her mass of
telegrams, “they haven’t sent the Taunton yet. And where’s the jolly
old Oval got to? It’s always late. They’re dreadfully slack to-night,
though. Half a mind to write to Lord Salisbury about it.”

“Grace,” said I, more weakly than before, “I don’t believe you _are_
listening. I--I--I’m asking you to be my--my wife.”

I beg to be excused the poverty of my diction, but really if I had not
spoken in the most unsophisticated fashion, I was rapidly getting into
such a state of nerves that I do not think I should have spoken ever.

“Grace,” I said again, as she had paid no heed, and this time thumping
on the table with my hand, that her polite attention might be attracted
somehow. “My wife--you--my wife--I want you to be my wife--see!”

“Thanks awf’ly,” said Grace. “Awf’ly good--marvellously good. Dimmy,
what a clever chap you are! Just let me set John Dixon straight, and
then I’ll laugh. Positive I’ll laugh.”

“Hang John Dixon!”

“We shall do nothing of the kind,” said Grace. “He’s one o’ the best,
is Johnny.”

“Grace,” I said abjectly, “I--I’m proposing to you--want you to be my
wife, you know. Most awf’ly obliged if you will, you know.”

“All right, Dimmy; half a mo’. I’m certain that I’ll laugh. Thirteen
from thirty leaves sixteen, don’t it?”

Her pencil continued in its scratching at a most outrageous rate.

“Pononner,” I repeated, “if you’ll have me, Grace, pononner I shall be
most awf’ly, beastly obliged, don’t you know!”

It was dreadfully hard luck that at this moment, just when I had lashed
myself into a perfervid and poetic heat, and a note of true passion had
accordingly come into my tone, that the library door was seen to come
open suddenly, if stealthily, and a magnificent being appeared, bearing
a salver with more telegrams thereon.

“What, three!” cried Grace excitedly. “One’s from the Oval, the other’s
Taunton; but what’s the third? Only expecting two. How funny! Yet
they’re all addressed ‘Trentham, Hickory’ right enough. Did he say what
made him so late, Augustus? Was he _very_ drunk?”

“Hextrahordinary hintoxicated, Miss,” said Augustus, retiring with a
sniff.

How cruel were the Fates! Here was I just playing myself in, getting
nicely set, as it were, and beginning to feel at home, when the arrival
of these beastly telegrams simply banished me and my remarks from
Grace’s mind. And this was the more annoying since I had spent fifty
minutes in battering her into listening to what I had to say.

“Surrey 401 for 6,” Grace was saying, as she tore out the contents
of the first. “Warwickshire’s getting beans, as usual. Hooray! Bobby
Abel, run out, 17. That’s a scotch in his wheel! It’ll drop him three
places. Brockwell, 109. Tom Hayward, 82. Jephson, 54. Key, not out, 100
exactly. Good of you, Kingsmill! Awf’ly pleased! Do you heaps of good!”

I was biting my lips in the meantime and saying, “My dear Grace,” at
intervals, in so thin a voice that it went entirely unheeded. The
unhappy thing was my conscientiousness. For I felt that I should not
be justified in calling my pitiful efforts a veritable proposal, since
Grace had persisted in regarding them as nothing more consequent than
a feeble joke in rather questionable taste. But, cost what it might, I
was going to see the matter through, having once embarked upon it.

“Hampshire, 203 all out,” Grace continued. “Somerset, 115 for 5.
Wicket must be fiery; yet it shouldn’t be. Wonder if they’ve watered
it? Something’s up. Shouldn’t get out like that ’gainst that sort o’
bowling. Wynyard, 70. Oh, and Vernon Hill 42, not out. Tyler, 6 wickets
for 90. They’ve been watering the wicket, that’s what they’ve been
doing. And now for the third. Hanged if I can tell where it’s from. All
the cricket’s come. I’ll open it, though, as my name’s Trentham.”

“It might be for somebody else, as there’s one or two other people
called Trentham in addition to yourself,” said I, trying to introduce a
word by hook or by crook, and being also in that perverted condition of
mind when a man longs to say something with a bit of a sting in it.

“Really!” said she. “How clever of you to have thought of that, Dimmy!
But as ‘Trentham, Hickory’s’ me as much as anybody else, here goes!”

Now as the contents of this telegram had so dire an effect on the
industrious Miss Grace, and the results of it were so far-reaching, I
think it only right that it should have a chapter all to itself.



CHAPTER XVI

A Telegram from Stoddart


THE third telegram ran to this tenour,--

“If Hawke wants you for India, sing slow. You are going with me.
Stoddart.”

Miss Grace had a mounting colour as she read this, and I believe
swimming eyes and a reeling brain. I think she would have liked to weep
for joy.

“Oh, Dimmy,” she said, “isn’t it divine! Isn’t it _noble_ of old
Stoddy! But I knew it, I knew it all along. It would have been
impossible not to take old Charlie. Wonder what the boys’ll say?”

At last it seemed that something of sufficient importance had occurred
to tear her mind from her all-absorbing occupation. She got up, her
cheeks still flushed, and moved to the door with a sort of look on her
face that implied that for the present she was performing the extremely
difficult feat of walking on air.

But I was too quick for her. With a bound I got to the door, and had my
back snugly against it by the time she arrived.

“Now then, Dimmy, get out of the way,” she imperiously said. “Can’t
wait a moment, you know. Must tell the boys. They’ll just go mad.”

“Oh, you can’t,” said I immovably. “Really. How nice! And you _must_
tell the boys?”

“No more ragging, Dimmy,” said she. “Honour bright, I can’t hold myself
till I’ve told ’em. What are you standing there like that for? I want
to pass.”

“Oh, you do,” said I. “How interesting! Awf’ly glad you’ve told me.
Jolly glad to know, you know.”

“Dimmy, if you don’t drop your jolly jaw, and let me pass, I’ll be
downright angry. Do you hear, Dimmy. Don’t play the Angora.”

“Well, it’s like this,” said I. “For the last hour you have been
spending your time in deliberately disregarding every word I’ve said.
But now, my dear Grace, pointedly speaking, you’ve bally well got to
listen, and the sooner you make your mind up to it, the sooner you’ll
get it over.”

At this Miss Grace began to flare up like anything.

“The music’ll play in a minute,” she said. “Tell you straight, Dimmy,
I’m a terror when I get my turkey up. If I do get my wool off, the
feathers’ll fly.”

“Nineteen from forty-one, quick!” said I. “But, my dear Grace, you sit
down and listen. That’s my tip. It’s the only way you’ll get out just
yet, anyhow.”

“Don’t say I haven’t given you fair warning, Dimmy, will you?” she
cried, with her face in a blaze.

“All right,” said I cheerily; “just give me time, Grace, and I’ll
laugh, I’m positive I’ll laugh.”

Grace stamped her foot. She looked things.

“Very nice, indeed,” said I. “I’m certain I’ll laugh.”

“Oh, it _is_ too bad!” she wailed. “Dimmy, you _are_ a brute! I _must_
go and tell ’em. I must really. Dimmy, _do_ come away from that door,
there’s a good soul!”

“No,” said I callously; “not until you have considered and replied to
my proposal.”

“Proposal!” cried Grace, midway between amazement and rage. “What
proposal?”

“That comes of not listening,” said I. “Think what you’ve missed. Am I
to understand that you didn’t hear a word I said?”

“That’s about it,” said Grace.

“Then, my dear Grace,” said I; “you take a chair and listen. If I keep
you here till two, I’m going over it again, and I’m going to make you
listen.”

“Oh, are you?” Had Grace been any one but Grace, I should have said she
positively snorted. “Oh, are you, Dimmy? Don’t you be too jolly sure
about it.”

I grieve to state that my ultimatum in Grace’s opinion constituted a
_casus belli_. The flying squadron immediately received orders to sail,
the blood darted all over her face in the most pictorial manner, and
she picked one of the books of the Rector’s off the table. She began to
skirmish a bit, making several feints, and awaiting her opportunity.

“I don’t want to, Dimmy, you know,” said she.

“But by Jingo if you do, Grace,” said I.

“You’d better come out of it, Dimmy, you know,” said this armed
belligerent, trying to show that our relations were not yet so strained
but that a conciliatory tone might preserve the peace, even at this
late hour. “It’s not a bit funny, you know. It wasn’t exactly what one
’ud call a good joke at the start, and now it’s getting as stale as
anything.”

“If it _is_ a joke,” I quoted, “it’s not at all obvious. When I _want_
to be bored I read _Punch_.”

Crash came _Pearson on the Creed_ full at my head. I dodged, of course,
but the momentum of that weighty theological work as it hurtled
against the resisting oak panel of the library door was really ominous.
The noise appeared to shake the foundations of the house.

“I’m glad,” said I, “that my nerves are fitted with rubber tyres and
ball bearings.”

It was some relief to see that the countenance of the enemy had now
changed to one of rue. _Pearson on the Creed_, lay _sans_ covers and
practically disembowelled at my feet. Poor Grace flopped on her knees
and began to gather the mutilated members of this old but highly
respectable tome.

“Dimmy, you’re a brute! a beast! that’s what you are!” she cried. “Do
you see what _you_’ve done? Oh, father will be angry! Oh, he will talk!
He will be eloquent! He’ll be ever such a lot worse than he is on
Sundays.”

His daughter, still on her knees, looked the picture of despair.

“Will he be cursive?” I amiably inquired.

“No,” said the miserable Grace, vainly trying to readjust the
fragments. “He don’t take on like that. Wish he did; then it wouldn’t
be so rough. When he has you on the carpet, he chucks a lot of high
dictionary language at you, like he does in his sermons--awful big
words, you know; what you can’t understand, you know. And they _must_
mean a dreadful lot more than those you can, mustn’t they? Oh, he’s
just horribly, awfully polite. Last time he told me ‘to restrain my
primeval instincts.’ That’s a nice thing to say, isn’t it? Does he mean
don’t play the goat, or what? Shouldn’t mind if I only knew what he
meant.”

“He means don’t play the Angora,” said the luminous I, with an air of
knowledge.

“Oh, that’s it, is it,” said Grace; “then why don’t he jolly well say
so, then, instead of rolling up ‘primeval instincts’ to you and that
kind o’ lingo?”

Grace having by this tenderly gathered _Pearson on the Creed_, and
having cunningly contrived to restore him to some semblance of his
former unimpeachable respectability, rose from her knees, and returned
to the attack.

“Dimmy, do come from that door, there’s a nice old chap,” she said.
“I’ll be _so_ good. I’m sure I’ll listen to you when I’ve told the
boys. I’m simply dying to tell ’em. Dimmy, you brute! come from that
door at once!”

“Sit down,” said I, stretching my finger out in my laconic sternness.

“If you don’t,” said she, “I’ll get _Hengstenberg’s Dissertations on
the Genuineness and Authenticity of the Pentateuch_ to you. That’ll
make you howl if it hits you, I’ll give you _my_ word. And it don’t
matter if we do knock the stuffing out o’ that, ’cause it isn’t
orthodox, you know.”

“Why, a girl couldn’t even lift a name like that?” said I, to encourage
her.

“Oh, you don’t draw me,” said the experienced Grace. She had served an
apprenticeship with four brothers. However, I was glad to find that
the unhappy and distraught Grace had by this arrived at the conclusion
that there was only one course open to her, if she was to be enabled
to convey the burning news to the dining-room in a reasonable time.
That one course was complete submission. Accordingly, after a terrible
struggle, in which the native Eve, or perhaps the primeval instincts,
within her were persuaded to lie down, she retired a few paces, leant
against the table, sighed heart-rendingly, and then laid her mutinously
twitching hands down by her sides as placidly as possible.

“Fire away,” she said dismally; “I’ll listen.”

“Thanks awf’ly,” said I; “so good of you to listen.”

“Oh, but, Dimmy, you great beast!” she implored, “please do look nippy;
I’m simply dying.”

“Well, what I’ve got to say’s just this,” said I, and the courage I
found wherewith to utter it came partly, I suppose, from the excitement
of my late employments, and partly from the get-there-sometime
Anglo-Saxon spirit that makes us all feel such wonderful fine fellows.
“Grace, I want you to be my wife,” said I.

“Oh, if that’s all your nodding, and winking, and reddening, and
stuttering’s been about,” said Grace, with evident relief, “I’ll be
your anything, so long as you’ll let me go immediately.”

“You misunderstand me rather,” said I, nearing desperation. “’Pon my
honour as a gentleman, I want you to be my wife.”

“But the boys wouldn’t let me,” she said.

“The boys!” I cried. “What the devil--no, I mean what the dickens have
the boys got to do with it? Who are the boys, pray? Never heard of such
a thing in my life.”

“Well, you see, Dimmy, it’s like this, you see,” said Grace
confidentially, but with her eye for ever wandering to the door.
“Nothing under a county man’s their motto.”

“You mean it’s yours,” said I indignantly.

“Oh, I daresay,” said she. “If I’ve got to have somebody, I’ll have a
county man or nobody.”

“You’d have the Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour, M.P.,” said I,
to illustrate how monstrously untenable was the position she had taken
up. “There’s never a girl that wouldn’t, if I know anything.”

“Balfour, Balfour,” said Grace. “Balfour. Oh, yes, you mean the golf
Johnny. Golf! What next? Look here, Dimmy, do you take me for a muff?
Why, I wouldn’t marry Willie Park.”

“No,” said I; “because you’re going to marry me.”

“Nothing under a county cricketer,” said she, with an air of finality.
“Besides, the boys ’ud be just awful. Now then, Dimmy, out o’ the way.
I’ve heard you out all fair and square, haven’t I?”

“Not by a lot,” said I. “My dear Grace, if you don’t be reasonable, I
shall have to declaim. Don’t want to, I can assure you, but as a last
resort I shall certainly be obliged to lift up my voice.”

“Angels and ministers of grace!” cried the unhappy young person of that
name; “I’ve let you down ever so gently, and this is what I get for it.
You’re ungrateful, Dimmy, that’s what you are! Now then, let me pass.”

“I’m not a county cricketer,” I began.

“It’s no secret,” said Grace.

“But I mean to be,” said I. “May get a trial for the county this year.
And didn’t you say yourself that my crack to cover was all serene?”

These particular reminiscences of my batting promised to modify Grace’s
point of view.

“I’d clean forgotten your crack to cover,” said she, with a fallen
look. “Hope I’ve not said anything very rude, Dimmy. If I have, I’m
awf’ly humble.”

“You’ve been pretty thick,” said I, following up what looked like an
advantage. “And you said my forward stroke was not so dusty, didn’t
you?”

“Very decent, indeed,” said the keen critic. “Honour bright, Dimmy, I
wasn’t really _very_ rude, was I?”

“Depends what you call rude,” said I. “You see, there’s no standard
measure of rudeness in this country. You threw books and things at me,
but that’s a detail.”

“So I did,” she said sadly. “But I’d clean forgot your crack to
cover. Makes me feel rather sick, Dimmy, when I think what I may have
said. You ought to have reminded me. One can’t think of everything;
’specially as you’re quite an ordinary looking sort o’ chap.”

“There you go again,” said I.

“That’s not what I meant _exactly_,” said this frank young person.
“What I mean is, you’re not six four, and chest according. But, Dimmy,
_are_ you going to let me pass?”

“Not till I’ve had something definite,” said I.

“You’ve got it,” said she.

“Oh, dear no,” said I. “You say nothing under a county cricketer.
Well, as I’m certain to be a county cricketer, your reply’s inadequate.”

“I like the certain,” said Grace. “I should go ‘Abundance’ on the
certain.”

“The certain’s assumed for the sake of argument,” said I.

“Dimmy, _will_ you let me pass--_please_!”

“Will you give me some hope?” said I.

“Let me pass first,” said Grace, “then we’ll talk about it.”

“You don’t come over me like that,” said I. “Must have something
definite. If I made myself into a county man, would you give me a show?”

“Oh, anything, anything,” said Grace, “so long as you’ll let me pass!”

“Of course, I’ve not much to offer you, you know,” said I, reduced to
the coarse expedient. “Only that crack to cover, you know, and a pretty
decent forward stroke. And, Grace, I’m developing ever such a prime
late cut, and I’ve great hopes of my leg glance. When I get my eye in
and the pace o’ the ground, I can turn length balls off my leg and
middle.”

It gladdened me to think that she was softening visibly.

“I should like to see all these fine things for myself,” said she.
“Must confess I haven’t seen ’em yet. I’ll come and watch you play
these strokes against a bit of class bowling.”

All at once an idea hit me in the middle of the waistcoat.

“Grace,” said I breathlessly, palpitatingly, “s’pose you play me
to-morrow under Rectory rules on the lawn at single wicket. Then you
can test my cricket yourself, don’t you know. What awful good fun!
Isn’t that a big idea?”

“Dimmy, if you _don’t_ let me go, I’m certain that I shall be obliged
to be rude,” said Grace, still reining herself in nobly.

“You’d see me at work against a bit o’ class bowling, you know,” said I.

“S’pose I should,” she said, pondering.

“And we might arrange it like this,” said I, “just to lend a little
interest to the thing. If you beat me at single wicket on the Rectory
lawn to-morrow, I’m plucked, wiped out, clean done. On the other
hand, if I beat you, you undertake to give my claims very serious
consideration.”

“Oh, anything, anything,” said Grace, “if you’ll just let me go. Dimmy,
I’m certain that if I didn’t know otherwise, I should think you were
a Harrow boy, your behaviour’s that abominably crude. Oh, I _am_ in a
wax!”

“Look here, Grace,” said I, “I merely require your promise that you’ll
play me to-morrow on these conditions, and then you are at liberty to
go.”

“You’ve got my promise,” said she, with an off-hand haste that was by
no means reassuring.

Thereupon I opened the door for the hot, angry, and impatient Grace,
and she slipped past me in a flash, fearing no doubt that I should
repent, and close the door once more upon her.

“Dimmy,” said she, as we repaired together to the boys, “I shall
give you a most awful licking to-morrow, you know. By Jove, Dimmy, I
wouldn’t be in your shoes! I _will_ give you beans; I _will_ take it
out of you for this.”

“_Per_-haps,” said I saucily. “But, Grace, I shall go all the time, I
can promise you. I mayn’t be a county man, but I’m not in the habit of
letting girls walk over me with impunity.”

“Oh, I daresay,” said Grace cuttingly. “I should judge that girls are
just about your weight. If you played your best, you might play very
well indeed against girls. But there’s one thing, Dimmy, that I happen
to know of your cricket. _You can’t bowl for nuts._ And I _can_ let
daylight into downright rubbish. Why, Toddles is actually better than
you at bowling, and I hit him most horribly. Toddles funks me now.
Oh, I shall enjoy myself to-morrow. I’ll pay you out for to-night’s
disgusting behaviour. If I can’t knock the cover off your stuff, Dimmy,
I’ll never touch a bat again, so there!”

Alas! that my miserable bowling should deserve every word she said
about it. My heart sank.



CHAPTER XVII

A Few of its Consequences


I REGRET to state that when Grace and I came to “the boys” in the
dining-room, we discovered seven gentlemen seated round the dining-room
table, engaged in a game called baccarat. It was reassuring to find,
however, that they were playing for nominal stakes, and that it was
being conducted under evident difficulties.

“Didn’t father say he positively wouldn’t have it!” cried Miss Grace.
“Oh, there will be a row if he catches you at it. Do drop it, there’s
good men.”

“He’ll put up with anything to-night,” said Toddles brazenly, “now that
Tom’s got a trial with the county.”

“I’ll tell you a piece of prime news, if you’ll just drop it, boys,”
said Grace coaxingly. But the amount of restraint she practised to hold
back the prime news in question must have been wonderful. I suppose it
is that women have such remarkable powers of diplomacy.

“Has that demoralising little Ranjy got another two hundred?” cried
Number Three in the batting averages apprehensively. “Because if he
has, I shall just chuck up the sponge; I can’t hope to catch him.”

“Better than that, Archie,” said his sister darkly, “_ever_ so much
better than that. _Can’t_ you guess?”

Grace, on her own part, however, spared him the trouble. She was no
longer able to suppress her eagerness. Impulsively straightening the
telegram that was crushed in her hands she read out its contents at the
top of a victorious voice.

Baccarat was forgotten. Led by Grace herself, the company gave three
rousing cheers for Stoddart, then another three for Charlie. Then,
on the suggestion of the Rev. Mr. Elphinstone, another three for
the bearer of the news, which was, of course, Miss Grace. Then, on
the suggestion of Miss Grace, there were three for the Rev. Mr.
Elphinstone, though why nobody knew exactly; and in the end everybody
was cheering everybody else, and generally kicking up the most horrible
noise it was possible to make. The redoubtable Toddles, who scaled a
little over nine stones himself, was endeavouring to carry fourteen
stones ten pounds, in the person of Charlie, round the room by his own
force of character, when the Rector appeared from his study with a look
not all pleasure upon his face.

“If you would like the hose,” said he, “I think you’ll find it in
the garden.” His daughter cut his observations short, however, by
brandishing the telegram before him. Directly he read it, the change in
his tone and manner was almost ludicrous.

“Dear me!” he said. “How very good of Stoddart. I’m very pleased, I’m
sure. I congratulate you heartily, my boy, very heartily. Laura, will
you please have the goodness to ring for Jennings. We must celebrate
this auspicious occasion in the time-honoured way I think.”

“Hear, hear!” said the full assembly.

“Only time on record, Father, you know,” said Grace, who was trying
desperately hard to keep her enthusiasm under restraint, “that Stoddy’s
ever taken two of one family together. And who’ll say dreams are rot
now?” she demanded fiercely. “What price mine? Hasn’t it come true?”

“There’s no ‘name inadvertently omitted’ about it, though,” said the
literal Charlie.

“All the same,” said Archie, “it’s near enough to give Grace no end of
a reputation with the Society of Psychical Research.”

“The Society of Sikey--what?” said Grace. “Mustn’t it hurt you, Archie,
to be so clever?”

The apparition of the butler, however, restored the tone to the
proceedings.

“I think, Jennings,” said the Rector, “that there should be just two
bottles of that champagne left in the third bin. Will you please bring
it up.”

“Miss Laura had it yesterday, sir,” said Jennings.

“Miss Laura had it yesterday, sir,” said the Rector, with the majesty
of an archbishop. “But pray, sir, will you have the goodness to explain
what Miss Laura has to do with it?”

“Miss Laura came to me yesterday, sir,” said Jennings apprehensively,
“and told me to give her the two remaining bottles. She said that she
would take all the responsibility, sir.”

“Quite right, Jennings,” said Grace, with a courageous promptitude that
I am afraid commanded the admiration of us all. “I did say I would take
all the responsibility. You see it’s like this, Father. I couldn’t give
a lot of common grocery to a set of county men, two of ’em going out
with Stoddy, could I?”

“There was only one of ’em going out with Stoddy yesterday, though,”
said her enemy of Harrow.

“I’ll defy anybody to say that there’s not two now, though,” said
Grace. “And it was the Little Clumpton match, you know, Father; and it
was an awful hot day, an’ awful fagging, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.
Besides, I couldn’t have given anything common to two men going out
with Stoddy, could I?”

“Well,” said her magnanimous parent, “on due consideration, I’m
inclined to think you couldn’t.”

“That’s all right then,” said Grace cheerfully.

To describe in detail the festivities attendant on Charlie’s honours
is by no means necessary, and perhaps not altogether politic. All I
need say is, that it was such a shameful hour when the Optimist and I
remembered it was time to go home that everybody simply scouted the
idea.

“Oh no, you don’t,” said our hostess. “You’re going to stay the night.
Must have you in condition for to-morrow’s match, you know, Dimmy.
Don’t want you to say when I’ve given you a most frightful licking that
you weren’t fit.”

“What match?” cried several of the curious.

“Dimmy knows,” said Grace.

“Oh, Dimmy knows, does he,” said Archie. “By Jove! you men, I shouldn’t
be a bit surprised if Jimmy’s lost his pony.”

“What pony?” said Grace.

“Dimmy knows,” said Archie.

And to me, who had by far the most exact acquaintance with the case, it
was as good as a comedy to witness their curiosity regarding the whole
affair.

“Laura,” said the Rector, who had been so borne onwards by the general
exultation of men and things that he was breaking all his records in
the way of sitting up, “Laura, is it not time you went to bed? It is
after ten, I think, and that’s your usual hour.”

“Well, look here, Father,” said his daughter; “will you promise to see
’em all to bed? Please _don’t_ leave ’em up with that awful little
Toddles. Archie, Charlie, and Tom are playing against Kent on Monday,
and I can see his game. You will keep your eye on ’em, won’t you,
Father? Oh, and just watch James’s game as well. He’s all right in
himself, you know, but when he gets with Toddles, he’s likely to be led
away.”

“I never heard such aspersions in the whole course of my career,”
said Toddles, taking forth a white silk handkerchief, and religiously
applying it to his sorrow. “Grace, I’m overcome.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Miss Grace. “Toddles, you’re a wrong ’un, and
always were.”

“Dear me,” said the Rector, “Laura, where _do_ you find such
expressions?”

“Now remember, Father,” said Miss Grace, opening the door. “Oh, and you
two have got to stay. The best room in the house, too. It’s the one
King Charles II. slept in after the battle of Worcester.”

“My dear girl,” said the Rector, who was evidently deeply exercised on
this point, “have I not said over and over again that he did not sleep
there. He could not possibly have done so.”

“Well, all I can say is,” said Miss Grace, “that, if that’s a fact,
this is the only house in these parts in which King Charles II. didn’t
sleep after the battle of Worcester. And that being so, I don’t see why
we haven’t as much right to him as anybody else. But keep your eye on
Toddles, won’t you, Father. Breakfast at half-past ten, boys. That’s
when you like it, I know. Be good. Ta-ta.”

Amid a volley of “good-nights” and “ta-tas” this extremely popular
young person went to bed. Loth as I am to say it, even her father did
not see fit to follow her example straight away. Events had fired him.
He drank the health of Charlie, and he smoked the health of Charlie
as sedulously as any. In fact, no man contributed more to the general
undermining of Charlie’s health than he. He told his old-time stories
of the cricket field. He also told some stories that were not of the
cricket field, but were not the less relished on that account. He
related how on one occasion on which he was bowling he killed a swallow
as it flew across the pitch. And like the thorough cricketer he was he
said that fact reminded him that he took nine wickets for sixteen in
that particular match.

Not wishing to incriminate any one, especially as two of the company
were Clerks in Holy Orders, I do not intend to make any more definite
statement in regard to the hour at which we did retire, than to say
that it was after ten. But then no household in England could have
had quite such provocation. Two members of one family going out with
Stoddart to represent the Old Country in the autumn! It was enough to
make an anchorite forego his way of life.

The summer dawn was on the trees and peeping through the blinds when at
last the Optimist and I appeared in the chamber of King Charles. The
birds in their dew-steeped branches were twittering to the meadows and
the cows. A cool, early fragrance came through the open windows and
filled the room. Therefore, when the Optimist and I climbed into our
several beds of white, sweet-smelling linen, and the young sun threw
a stray beam or two upon our pillows, the luxury of lying awake was
so much greater than that of going to sleep, that after spending ten
ineffectual minutes in trying to do so, I gave it up as hopeless.

“Brightside,” said I, at the end of that period, “are you asleep yet?”

“Not much, and shan’t be,” said he.

“I wonder why we are like this?” said I. “Seems funny, don’t it. Don’t
feel a bit tired, do you?”

“No,” said he, “only in the throat. Pollies and Scotches always make it
feel a bit weary. But don’t those Trenthams touch ’em pretty. Awf’ly
nice chaps though, aren’t they? Extends to their feminine faction too.
I wonder why we can’t go to sleep? Does seem funny, as you say.”

“Don’t it,” said I. “Have you any ’bacca? mine’s all cleared.”

The Optimist reached for his coat and presently dropped his pouch on to
my eye. Thereon I sat up in bed and lit a pipe.

“By the way,” said I, “I want to ask you what colour you’d call Grace’s
complexion?”

“Haven’t noticed it particularly,” said he, suppressing a yawn.

“Brightside,” said I severely, “don’t lie. And don’t yawn, because when
you yawn you still lie.”

“Girls are a topic that bores one, you know,” said he. “But I s’pose
you did pop it. She seemed rather familiar. She called you Dimmy.”

“You noticed that?” said I.

“Everybody noticed it,” said he. “And _did_ you pop it?”

“Like a brick,” said I.

“Then you’d better tell me all about it,” said he, exposing his hand
at last. “Then perhaps we shall both feel sleepier.”

Thereupon, without the exercise of the least piece of pressure, I
entered on a flowing, exhaustive and frank relation.



CHAPTER XVIII

I Receive Instruction in a Heart-breaking Science


AT the end of this exciting story, the Optimist said:

“Quite a neat idea, this trial by cricket, from one point of view.
The point of view is hers. It’s an attempt of course on the part
of feminine delicacy to let a fellow down gently. You haven’t a
thousand-to-one chance of beating her, you know.”

“Thanks, old chap,” said I, “you’re a great consolation. But I’m going
to have such a good try. Besides, although she’s a Trentham, she’s also
a girl.”

“Can you bowl?” said the Optimist, with brutal brevity.

“Oh, damn!” said I, and proceeded to smoke savagely for the space of
three minutes, as my manner was in some danger of losing its repose.

“Your bowling’s positively putrid,” the Optimist said. “And she can
hit hard. Lots of the family muscle, and her eye’s perfect.”

“I’m trusting to my batting,” said I.

“You’ll find it a broken reed,” said he, “when you come to play her
curly ones. You haven’t met ’em yet, have you?”

“No, worse luck,” said I.

“She’s got her guv’nor’s curl, you know. Horrible things that swerve in
the air and then break back again. You heard what the boys said? And
they’ve not exaggerated ’em a bit. They’re indescribably infernal.”

I tried to play the stoic. With this purpose in view, I discarded my
pipe and settled myself for peace, perfect peace. But I was just as
likely to send down a good length ball as to get to sleep just then.

“It’s no good malingering,” said the Optimist, at the end of ten
minutes; “you are no more in slumber’s lap than I am.”

“Shut up, can’t you?” I said. “I was just in a doze.”

“Why don’t you face your position,” said he, “as becomes a valiant man
of Little Clumpton? You’ve got to play Grace in an hour or two, and yet
the bowling at your command is incapable of getting a girls’ school
out. As I am truly anxious that you shall bring no disgrace upon your
club, might I suggest that you get a little practice before the match
begins?”

“Almost a suggestion for you,” said I. “Are you willing to assist me?”

“Oh, I’ll see you through with it,” said the Optimist, who, I have
reason to believe, was the most unselfish person in the world. Let
this explain, then, how it came about that at a little before eight,
the pair of us dressed, and presently sallied below to obtain a ball
wherewith I might develop the theory and practice of bowling. It was
not, of course, to be expected that our companions in the late pious
orgies would be yet abroad; indeed, we felt ourselves to be quite
early. It was not at all a difficult affair to procure the article
of which we were in need, as the first domestic to whom we broached
the subject directed us to a receptacle where bats, balls, stumps,
pads, gloves and “blanco” were heaped together in profuse disorder. On
sallying out to the lawn, however, the very first object our eyes fell
on gave us no inconsiderable shock.

Miss Grace was assisting Biffin to prepare the wicket with a small but
apparently heavy hand-roller. Involuntarily the pair of us, guilty as
we felt ourselves to be, made a motion to withdraw. Alas! too late! we
had been observed.

“Mornin’, Cheery; mornin’, Dimmy,” cried Miss Grace, in a voice as
strong as a blackbird’s. “Come and roll a bit. We’ve been at it an hour
or more.”

There was no alternative but somewhat reluctantly to approach.

“Why, what an early bird you are!” I began. “I thought you said
breakfast was at half-past ten.”

“For you idle men,” said she. “_I’ve_ had one already, and shall be
ready for another by then. ’Must lend Biffin a hand; he’d never have
these wickets O.K. else.”

“What time does the match begin?” I asked, to keep up the conversation,
whilst I tried to smuggle unseen the tell-tale ball into my coat.

“Wicket pitched at twelve o’clock,” said Grace. “And it’s all right,
Dimmy, I saw you. You can fetch it out again. You want to do a bit of
bowling, don’t you? Want to find a bit of a length? Well, if you’ll
just roll a few up I’ll give you some tips.”

Impatient Reader, I ask you to conceive the situation! Conceive the
irony, the pathos! Here was the very person I was trying to overcome in
deadly combat, having the audacity to show me how to set about it. A
person of a more sanguine temperament, the Optimist for instance, might
have argued from these premises that the enemy was actually courting
defeat. But I knew by the half-pitying, half-contemptuous way in which
the offer was made, that it sprang from her own joyous self-confidence,
and that she was inclined to regard me as a foe who not for a single
moment was to be considered seriously.

Grace’s keen eye and her deductive faculty made me decidedly
uncomfortable. It is not nice to be found out and then be so ruthlessly
exposed. And I regret to say that the Optimist, who had nothing at
stake, was sufficiently human to enjoy my misfortune.

“Who told you what Dimsdale was up to?” he said. I believe that it is
no injustice to the Optimist to state that he was trying to prolong my
pain.

“Was it _very_ clever of me?” said Grace. “Do you know it makes me
laugh awfully to see the way you men try to dodge and hedge and that
sort o’ thing. You’re that horribly clumsy. There was old Dimmy’s face
saying as plain as print, ‘Don’t look, _please_, till I’ve put it away,
will you?’ But let’s have that ball, old chap, and I’ll see if I can’t
lick you into shape a bit. I _do_ mean to do the right thing by you,
you know.”

Pitching a single stump on yesterday’s wicket, she got behind it, and
caused me to begin bowling from the opposite crease. The first ball I
tried to deliver almost wrenched my unaccustomed right arm from its
socket. It pitched about halfway down and trickled along the ground
till it ultimately rolled a good yard wide of the mark. My tutor raised
her brows with a mild air of protest.

“My dear man,” she said, “is that what you call bowling? It strikes me
that it’s more like bowls than anything.”

“I’m only loosening my arm, you know,” said I weakly.

“Keep pegging away,” said she, valiantly suppressing a smile.

Fancy the other side adopting this kind of tone. And the Optimist _was_
enjoying it.

“Cheery,” said Grace, “go and lend a hand to Biffin. There is he
tugging away like a horse, and you stand grinning at him.”

“It was not at Biffin, I can assure you,” the Optimist said.

“I must have been mistaken then,” said the adroit Grace; “it was only
your way of looking interested.”

“Oh, no, it was not,” said the Optimist, “I was laughing at----”

“Don’t interrupt, please,” said my tutor, “and don’t argue.”

Really my tutor was the very essence of good breeding! I continued to
bowl without enjoyment, without inspiration, without conviction even.
For I was distressingly alive to the fact that my bowling was exactly
what bowling ought not to be. To adopt the technical language of my
tutor: “It’s a good length, Dimmy, _at your own end_. Be careful, old
chap, or you’ll trap your toes.”

It had neither length, nor pace, nor direction. It had absolutely
nothing to recommend it. There was a timidity, a meekness, an air of
apology about it that positively invited batsmen to hit it very hard
indeed.

“You really must get your arm a bit higher,” said my tutor. “Bring it
right over, you know. And get your fingers round the seam--so; only two
besides the thumb. Tuck t’others underneath a bit, and give ’em a sort
of jerk, and flick your wrist a bit just as you deliver.”

“Ye-es,” said I; “ye-es, ye-es.”

“Got the idea?” said Grace.

“Perfectly,” said I.

“Let’s see you do it then.”

Alas! I did do it, and the ball went spinning out of my hand at right
angles, and hit Biffin very tenderly on the head.

“That’s how you get ‘devil,’ you know,” said my tutor, with a very
kindergarten kind of air, and pretending at the same time to be quite
unconscious of this melancholy incident.

“It’s _the_ devil,” I said simply.

“I must show you how to do it,” said my tutor.

“Do, please, by all means,” said I quickly.

I was, of course, as a batsman and an opponent, particularly anxious
to obtain a private view of her celebrated bowling. And the specimen
she did send down, said as clearly as possible that report had
not overpraised her prowess. There was a mastery, an ease, and a
combination of qualities therein that said here was a born bowler.
Hers, as has been remarked, was an Alfred Shaw style of action, only
that in accordance with the modern theory she brought her arm as
high over as she could possibly get it. She was decidedly slow, but
possessed the necessary and fatal “nip,” and to see the ball curl one
way from her hand, and then the moment it dropped quickly twist in the
opposite direction was, to a batsman who had got to face it presently,
little short of alarming.

“Why,” I cried, “why, Grace, your bowling’s perfectly magnificent!”

“Oh no, Dimmy, it’s not,” said Grace. “It’s quite common or garden.
If I’d got a bit more pace now it might do things. But with more pace
I can’t get the break, and that’s what makes me so sick. The Guv’nor
could, you know. He was a bowler if you like. I’ve bowled at Biffin
for hours an’ hours, yet if I begin to try medium the ‘work’ don’t
act.”

My tutor uttered this in a tragic tone.

“I don’t care what your pace is,” said I, carried away by her beautiful
delivery, her perfect length, her “nip,” her “devil,” her break, and,
above all, her parent’s curl in the air, which was an undoubted case of
heredity, “but your bowling’s magnificent.”

“Oh, rot!” said Grace. “It ought to be faster.”

“It’s perfectly magnificent,” said I.

“Oh, rot!” said Grace again. “Do you think I don’t know when bowling’s
real A 1? Too slow for a quick-footed bat. He’s got time to get out and
hit me most horrid. Didn’t you see Archie lift me clean over that jolly
old tent. Wasn’t it a smasher? I did feel prickly. I’d kept ’em _so_
short, and as soon as I did pitch one up a bit that’s how he served me.”

“By Jove!” said I; “that’s what I’ll do. It’s not quite my game, you
know, but I’m hanged if I don’t go out and hit you.”

“Oh, you will,” said the enemy, with a gleam in her eye. “We’ll see
about that. Rectory rules, you know, and lots of fielders.”

Judged in this light, my new scheme was not quite so good as it at
first appeared.

“We _are_ a pair of jays, aren’t we,” said Grace, with amazing
friendliness. “Here we’ve both gone and given ourselves away. You’ve
shown me all about your stuff, and I’ve shown you all about mine.”

“Yes,” I said, “we’ve certainly exposed our hands. Rather a joke. But I
never thought about it at all.”

“Nor I,” said she. “But this I will say, Dimmy. Now that I’ve seen the
sort o’ tosh you _do_ bowl, I’m certain that I shall have just a walk
over. I always guessed it was pretty bad, your bowling, but I didn’t
think it could be quite the giddy essence of utterness that it really
is. If you’ll take my tip you’ll try lobs. I _might_ get into two minds
with those, you know, as nobody’s quite happy with lobs. Your other
sort, though, won’t have me out in a season. I should advise you to
scratch. You’ll have an awful time if you don’t. I’m speaking plain as
a friend, old chap.”

“So beastly good of you to be so beastly friendly,” said I gloomily.

The downright Grace certainly meant to behave nicely. Her advice was
perfectly well-meant and sincere; but how impossible it was to take
it! I would prefer to sacrifice my personal dignity rather than my
opportunity. Besides, her complete indifference to the result of our
encounter was a great humiliation in itself. Could she have by any
chance forgotten the stakes for which I was to play? I deemed it wise
to sound her.

“Well, I will scratch on one condition,” said I.

“My dear Dimmy,” said she, “I’m not asking a favour, you know. Entirely
in your own interests, I can assure you. You are at liberty to play the
match or scratch it as you just please. Matter of perfect indifference
to me, you know. Merely suggested scratching to spare you a tremendous
licking. Don’t matter to me personally one way or the other, a little
bit.”

“Oh, it don’t,” said I, feeling both hot and emotional; and had a
traction-engine been taking the liberty of going over me, I don’t think
I could have felt more crushed.

“Why should it?” said Grace, gazing at me with big-eyed demureness.

“My dear Grace,” said I; “my dear Grace.”

Her eyes grew bigger.

“What’s up, old chap?” said she.

“You’re not forgetting,” I said anxiously; “you’re not forgetting, I
hope, what this match means to me. You promised to give my claims the
most serious consideration if I won, didn’t you?”

Grace’s reply was laughter. I sought to compensate my injuries a little
by persuading myself that this ebullience on the part of Grace was in
the worst possible taste. But this I knew to be a chimera, raised from
the ruins of my self-esteem; for Grace was that forthright, fearless
kind of soul who had only to do a thing to create the precedent for it.
Somehow she seemed quite unable to lose her breeding for a moment, as,
by some strange oversight, the science of snobbery had been omitted
from her education altogether. Therefore she did not spend her time in
committing the very solecisms that she strove most to avoid. Could she
have been bred in England?

This trite reflection, Impatient Reader, is not really a digression,
but is a device introduced to allow Grace full time to have her laugh
out. When it was ended at last, I said mildly:--

“What’s the joke, Grace?”

“Why, the joke is that you’ve not got the slightest earthly, my dear
chap,” said Grace. “Else do you think I’d have taken those absurd
conditions?”

This was comforting in the extreme! It was no more than I deserved
though. But my imperial Anglo-Saxon rose in all the majesty of his
Rudyard Kipling.

“All right,” said I; “but this is going to be no walk over. I’m going
all the way, I can tell you, Grace. A game’s never won till it’s lost.”

“I’m glad you’re cheerful,” said Grace, “’cause your gruelling’ll be so
prime that you’ll want a _dreadful_ lot of cheerfulness. It just makes
me shudder to think what’ll happen to you, Dimmy.”

“You can’t intimidate me,” said I; “you can’t make me funk you.”

“That’ll come later,” said Grace, “when you go on to bowl!”

“Cricket, cricket, and still cricket!”

It was the voice of the Rector, who had come upon us unobserved.

“Mornin’, Father,” said his daughter. “All serene this morning? You
were reading Livy rather late last night, weren’t you? Oh, you literary
men, your hours are dreadful!”

“If you are too ironical,” said the Rector, accepting the cheek she so
promptly offered him--yes, I mean in both a figurative and a _literal_
sense. I certainly intended no pun, but if one has to deal with the
confounded English language, how _is_ one to avoid its pitfalls?--“If
you are too ironical,” said the Rector, “I’ll preach a fifty minutes’
sermon to-morrow, Laura.”

As was subsequently explained, this was quite the most effective means
of dealing with the misdemeanours of Miss Grace.



CHAPTER XIX

A Case for M.C.C.


CONTRARY to expectation, breakfast was dispatched in sufficiently
reasonable time to permit my match with Grace to start about eleven.
Needless to say, Grace herself arranged the details. The seven
cricketers who were not playing on this occasion, instead of being
allowed to act the part of mere lookers-on, received orders to field
for both sides. “And, Toddles,” said Grace, in an intimidating tone,
“if you drop Dimmy and then take me, I’ll never forgive you.” Her
father, to my great uneasiness, was to be installed as scorer, under
his usual convenient willow tree; and the notorious Biffin she proposed
to nominate as umpire. Acting on the joint advice of Toddles and
Archie, I entered a formal protest against Biffin being allowed to
stand in this important fixture. This matter, which involved much more
than I had suspected, was debated at the breakfast-table.

“Oh,” said Grace, “you’ve nothing against Biffin’s personal character,
I hope?”

“Oh, no,” said I; “it’s only that he don’t quite command my confidence,
you know.”

“How funny!” said Grace; “’cause I have every confidence in Biffin.
He knows the game, his eyesight’s good, his decisions are as prompt
as possible, and his judgment’s wonderful. Can’t expect more of an
umpire, can you? Of course, he might be better looking, but that’s
his misfortune, poor man! Besides, I never think it’s wise to have an
umpire who’s too good-looking. One’s liable to watch him, instead of
the ball, don’t you see.”

“Dimsdale, don’t you be bluffed,” said Charlie. “She’s a regular
Arthur Roberts at the game of bluff. She knows as well as anybody that
Biffin’s umpiring is worth about five hundred runs a year to her.
The darned impudent decisions I’ve seen that bounder Biffin give are
something cruel. If he’s given her in once, he’s given her in six times
when she’s been stumped yards out of her ground, simply on account
of the tip of the wicket-keeper’s nose being in front of the wicket.
Pretty barefaced to come it once, but six times is what I should call
immoral.”

“Shows his knowledge o’ the game,” said Biffin’s defender, “and his
attention to the fine points of it, too. There’s lots of umpires ’ud
not have noticed that, and I should have had to have gone out.”

“They’d not, that’s a cert.,” said Charlie; “and that you would have
had to have gone out is a dead cert.”

“I s’pose, Charlie,” said Grace, “that the tip o’ the wicket-keeper’s
nose _is_ a part of his person, isn’t it? And Rule 42 says----”

“Here, no more cucumbers!” cried T. S. M. hastily.

“Dimsdale, don’t you budge,” said Carteret. “If you consent to Biffin,
you’ll be shamefully rooked.”

“What’s Dimmy got to do with it?” said Grace. “Is Dimmy the M.C.C., or
what? If I say Biffin’s going to stand, Biffin will stand, and don’t
you think he won’t; ’cause if you do, you’ll be in error.”

“Go it, Lord Harris!” said Toddles. “Just hear Harris! Oh, you
autocratic person! Talk about George, why, you’re worse than a colonel
of militia!”

The case was being conducted with great fervour by both sides. There
was quite a formidable array of counsel for the prosecution. Indeed,
Grace’s defence of the indefensible Biffin had for once caused her to
stand absolutely alone. She was no whit abashed, though. Nor did she
descend to mere argument. She was thoroughly satisfied with her own
opinion, and was prepared to enforce it in the teeth of male criticism
of the most destructive kind.

“Biffin’s an unmitigated ruffian,” said Archie. “And if I can help it,
he’ll never stand again.”

“But you can’t help it, Archie,” said his sister; “’cause if I want him
to stand, he will stand, don’t you see?”

“He’s an unprincipled person,” said the little parson. “And I marvel
that Grace’s moral nature can countenance him.”

“I’ll have a bob each way on ‘moral nature,’ Toddles,” said Grace.

“His umpirin’s too thick to talk about,” said T. S. M. “Why, at
Harrow----”

“Yes, at Harrow,” said Grace. This prompt seizure of her opportunity
was of no avail, however. Public opinion was now entirely with T. S. M.
Poor Grace stood alone. She consoled herself with a massive piece of
toast, with butter and marmalade to match.

“Seeing that Dimsdale’s happiness is at stake,” said Toddles, with
an air of patronage and protection that was perfectly insufferable,
“we shall do well to stick by him in this, and give him our undivided
support. We’ll admit that he’s not much chance under the most
favourable conditions; but with Biffin as umpire he’s as good as
plucked before he goes on the field. Besides, we want this to be a
sporting event. Fair play all round, you know, and no favour, and may
the best man win.”

“Toddles,” said the keen Grace, pausing an instant in her
well-organized assault on the toast and marmalade, “you’re mixed. Sort
yourself out a bit. Toddles, you’re talking rot.”

“Oh, but, my dear Grace,” said I, “it’s not rot for me, I can assure
you. It’s a matter for earnest consideration.”

It was really enjoyable to feel such a weight of public opinion behind
one. It was evidently a crisis that had been coming slowly to a head
for years. Here was the opportunity of the long-suffering to test the
legality of Grace’s uncompromising attitude on the Biffin question.
In the somewhat technical language of the barrister, they were simply
making a test case of it, in order to get a judicial pronouncement as
to whether in future Grace was to be licensed to do as she liked.

“O’ course I shall, James,” said Grace; “I always do, don’t I?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Archie, “I suggest that the question be
submitted to arbitration. We’ll submit it to the Guv’nor, and take his
verdict as final. Will you agree to that, Grace?”

“You know quite well, Archie,” said Grace, in a honeyed voice, “that I
am always perfectly willing for you to fill up your spare time in a way
that’s profitable and amusing to yourself, providing it’s not likely
to do you personally any harm, or to lead astray those who are younger
than you are. Talk it over by all means with your father, Archie, but
if I say Biffin will stand, you can take my word for it.”

The high-wrought state of public opinion, that was enough to make the
French pause and the Sultan tremble, merely appeared to incite the
dauntless Grace to new audacity. She positively snapped her fingers at
it, and ate her toast and marmalade with an air of the most victorious
unconcern.

“H’m,” said the little parson, in his best clerical tone; “she seems
to be a person of character and ideas. What’s to be done? We can’t let
Dimsdale be knocked down and walked over on an occasion of this sort.
Grace, I certainly think that your uncompromising attitude on this
vexed question is greatly to be deplored.”

“Deplore away,” said Grace, helping herself to butter. “What an amusing
little man you are, Toddles!”

Affairs were at a deadlock. How was it possible to negotiate if one
side would insist on having its own way?

“It’s a sort of diplomatic _impasse_,” said Archie. “What’s to be done?
Suppose we take Biffin by main force and put him under the cucumber
frame, and keep him fastened down? There’d be no more bad decisions
then.”

“Plenty of bad language, though,” said some person of wit.

“And we wouldn’t release him,” said Carteret, “until Grace had actually
played an innings without damaging the eyesight of the cucumbers or
otherwise mutilating them.”

“I call Grace’s behaviour beas’ly bad form,” said the Harrow captain.

“Oh, I know it’s beastly bad form,” said Grace; “but then, you see,
Tommy, one has to play pretty low down to gain the appreciation of
one’s family.”

Had Grace’s cause only been a just one, the manner in which she
maintained it against all comers must have evoked unqualified
admiration. The cabal was powerless in the face of her despotic
attitude. They said hard things, and they said rude things, as
brothers will, even if they have a sister who is a first-class angel
of an unimpeachable appearance. But although Grace stood alone,
discredited, out of favour, a fallen idol, and a mark for some very
cutting observations, mostly the Harrow captain’s, who saw his moment,
and, boylike, was exulting in it--despite all this, Grace continued
to consume toast and marmalade as valiantly as ever. Now and then
she diversified this proceeding by looking daggers at Toddles, when
that irrepressible little clergyman made faces at her. Now and then
she introduced a brief remark on her own account, that on examination
proved to be as flinty and hard-edged as a chip of granite. It was
plain that the exercise of a considerable force of character had been
the secret of Grace’s ascendancy and pre-eminence in regard to these
great men. And having obtained her power, she did not hesitate to abuse
it, as they say her sex generally do.

“In my opinion,” said Archie, “there’s been a mistake in Grace’s
destiny. Her arrogance and sweet unreasonableness makes her look a
bit out of drawing, I think. Strikes me that Nature planned her for
a Gladstone or a Mailyphist, and then made her a girl for fun. But I
believe she simply doesn’t care what we think of her.”

“Oh, yes, I do, you know, Archie,” said Grace; “I’m as cut up as can
be. I’m quite put off my game. You had better let us have some more
toast, Jane. Toddles, pass the marmalade--and the butter. Yes, I think
I’ll have the butter, too.”

However, in my eyes Grace’s splendid isolation had such a nobility,
such a dignity, such a pathos of its own, that it struck me with
some suddenness that a little magnanimity might not be altogether
out of place. It was patent, however, that her brothers had such
firm convictions on the point at issue that they were not likely to
exercise it. Therefore, I had a try myself.

“My dear Grace,” said I, “don’t let’s worry about Biffin any more.
_I’m_ perfectly willing for him to stand, you know.”

“What!” cried the whole table with one voice.

Yet I ask you what could a fellow do under the circumstances? Splendid
isolation is magnificent, of course, but not being one of Grace’s
brothers, how could I help pitying the isolated?

The storm of contumely that my unconditional surrender provoked was
woeful. Even the gallant Optimist reviled me. Their unanimity was
crushing. It was not the question at issue that mattered so much;
it was the general principle. It always is the general principle.
They considered themselves betrayed. They had pledged themselves and
their interests entirely in _my_ cause, and then I calmly go over to
the other side and merge that cause in the enemy’s. In fact, in the
impassioned language of Toddles, the more they examined the fine points
of my conduct, the deeper the iron entered into their souls.

“Jolly good o’ the iron,” said Grace; “improve ’em no end. Been wanting
a tonic a long time.”

Grace, indeed, I am glad to state, took an entirely different view of
my behaviour. Never had I seen her face so brightly eloquent as when
she laid down her coffee-cup and looked at me.

“Dimmy,” said she, “you’re a good sort, that’s what you are--a ripping
good sort. Dimmy, you’re A 1!”

Her tone implied that she meant it, too. And really it was decidedly
consoling to feel that we stood together facing scorn and disfavour on
every hand. But it seemed that the tactful Grace knew how, when, and
where to be generous. Or, no, I’m quite sure her generosity was not
studied at all. It was just unaided nature!

“Look here, you men,” said she; “as Dimmy’s such a good sort, he’s
not going to be such a good sort, do you see? No, I don’t mean that
exactly; I mean----”

“If it’s sheer cheek that you mean, which we’ve every reason to fear
that it is,” said Toddles, “we shall be very grateful if you’ll be
content to consider it said. If we have any more before lunch I’m
thinking that some of the batting won’t be of a very high order at
Tonbridge on Monday.”

“That’ll do, Toddles,” said Grace. “Have a rest now, there’s a good
little man. What was I saying? Oh, as Dimmy’s done the right thing,
I’m going to do the right thing, too. Father, will you stand to-day,
please?”

A rousing cheer greeted this announcement.

“I’ve always said,” remarked George, “that more can be done by the
kindness method in the treatment of these wild natures than cruelty,
firearms, and that sort of thing. Here’s Grace lying down now,
apparently as tame and docile as a kitten, without the use of red-hot
irons or anything of the kind. And it’s so much better than burning her
fur, don’t you know.”

The Rector consenting to stand, the affair terminated. Biffin, for
that day at least, had to be content with the humbler functions of the
scorer.

Breakfast over, we trooped out into the sun. And as we did so I am
free to confess that my attire was a trifle irregular. Carteret being
the most medium-built man amongst us, except in the matter of girth,
and, therefore, the most resembling me, had very kindly lent me his
buckskins; Charlie lent me one of his shirts, which, to my infinite
pleasure, he assured me was the one he wore in the ’Varsity match, when
he got so many Oxford wickets, and paid so very little for them; while
Archie subscribed the identical pair of unmentionables in which he made
his record score against Sussex at Brighton last year. In passing,
it should be noted that record scores have quite a habit of getting
themselves made against Sussex at Brighton. It is probably the sea air.

Despite this peculiar and rather extensive outfit, and an unbiassed
umpire withal, I was earnestly assured that I could not possibly have
a look in. In fact, Grace was popularly supposed to be invincible in
single combat under Rectory rules, on the Rectory wicket. A copy of the
rules aforesaid was duly deposited in the Rector’s hands before the
match began. And, although I was privileged to peruse them, the one
conclusion to which they helped me was, that although the laws of the
M.C.C. had very kindly and thoughtfully provided nine several ways in
which a batsman might get out, those of the Rectory had most generously
furnished nine and ninety.

I’ll admit at once that I had not the least confidence in myself.
Everybody took a simple-minded pleasure in telling me that Grace never
had been beaten single-handed on her own playing-piece.

“My boy,” said the little parson, with his excruciating friendliness,
“that brown-haired, brown-faced, brown-booted, brown-hollanded person,
familiarly known as Grace, is as full of wiles, tricks, and low devices
as a certain person with a toasting-fork and a curly tail whom I shall
not even permit myself to mention. If you can take Grace down a peg,
posterity becomes your servant. Your fame will be for all time, your
name will be in Wisden. For I believe I’m right in saying that under
these conditions Grace would knock spots off half the Middlesex eleven.”

“Certain of it,” said Archie pleasantly. “She’s a holy terror; and
the charm of it is, Dimsdale, that she never has made a secret of what
she’s going to do to you.”

“Why should I?” said Grace. “I’m going to give him a most awful licking
for last night’s horrible behaviour.”

“All right,” said I meekly; “lick away.”

“Dimmy,” said she, “if I don’t, I’ll give you a scarf-pin.”

“I shall require more than a scarf-pin,” said I. And the emphasis I
used was unmistakable.

“By Jove!” said Grace, “I was forgetting _that_. Thanks for the
reminder, old chap. Will you call, or shall I?”

Next moment Grace had won the toss.

“Dimmy,” said she, “as your bowling’s so thoroughly depressing, and
you’re not likely to have _me_ out in a year, I think you’d better bat
first. Get your pads on.”



CHAPTER XX

A Case for Another Eminent Authority


WHEN I buckled on Toddles’ pads I had all the symptoms of a bad attack.
I was a trifle dizzy, I was half blind, my heart just seemed to be
trying what it could do, while my limbs were equally irresponsible.
There was a great jug of cider laid on a table under the trees, and the
Optimist would insist on my taking a draught of it, ere I went in to
bat.

Grace placed her field with consummate care. Everybody was laughing as
I took my guard.

“Don’t think he’ll stay three minutes,” said Carteret, quite audibly.
Had Carteret only known, it was the kind of remark to make me stay
three hours. That slice of Anglo-Saxon in my constitution, that I
have already had occasion to advertise, objects above all things to
be walked over rough-shod. I knit my teeth. I determined to perish or
prevail. That moment, though, I should have been very well satisfied
had the perishing anticipated itself by occurring there and then.

Grace’s bowling was much as I had judged it to be. I knew her
hereditary peculiarities would take a terrible amount of negotiating.
And they certainly did. The very first ball I turned half round to,
with the idea of getting it away to leg, whereon the flight, slow as it
was, so deceived me that had it not been for my exceedingly thoughtful
and well-trained right leg I should have suffered the humiliation of
being clean bowled middle stump.

“How’s that?” cried Grace.

“Didn’t pitch straight,” said the Rector.

I sighed my deep relief.

“There she goes,” said T. S. M. from extra cover. “Begins her games at
once. If Biffin had been standin’ it would have been ‘Hout, Miss!’ sure
as a gun. Lucky for you, Dimsdale.”

“Tommy,” said Grace, “will you have the goodness to change places with
Toddles at short-leg? Very close in please, Tommy. I’m going to bowl
a few half-volleys just outside the leg stick; so you will look out
for your face, won’t you? And you won’t funk ’em, will you, Tommy? And
young boys shouldn’t be quite so jolly cheeky, should they?”

In addition to her curl, there were several other things appertaining
to Grace’s bowling that required watching. Her length was perfect,
and, strangely enough, like her model the great Alfred Shaw, she had
acquired the trick of heightening and lowering her delivery without
any appreciable change in the action, but a pretty considerable amount
in the flight. And, better than this, or worse, she was mistress in
a measure of the painfully difficult art of making occasional balls
“hang.” Although the Rectory wicket was well-nigh perfect, one had to
watch her all the way, and then be prepared to alter one’s tactics
at the last moment. She could make them “do a bit” both ways, and,
in addition to all these accomplishments, she had the imperturbable
temperament of the really great bowler--she didn’t mind being hit. That
attitude of mind is undoubtedly the hall-mark of the master. She kept
pitching up to me in the most audacious way. But I resolutely refused
to “have a go,” until at last she had the downright impudence to send
me a particularly slow full toss to leg, which I, of course, promptly
cracked to the fence for four.

“Thought you wouldn’t be able to resist that,” she said winningly. “And
do have a smack at this, Dimmy, just for fun.”

“This” was a particularly silly-looking half-volley well on the
leg-side also. Having tasted the delights of a fourer so recently, I
was naturally a bit headstrong and uplifted. I had a full sweep at
it, and in the heat of the moment utterly ignored the fatal curl. As
a consequence I caught it on the extreme end of my bat, and it went
spinning up a considerable height, straight into the hands of mid-on.
My very soul groaned. To be caught napping so absurdly and so palpably!
My emotions were so bitter that gall becomes honey by comparison. For I
had walked into the trap with my eyes open.

Now the Optimist was the fieldsman at mid-on. And the dear, kind
Optimist, most unselfish of men, had a fellow feeling that made him
wondrous kind! The Optimist shaped for the catch in the crudest manner.
He dropped me inexcusably in consequence. It was idle of him to urge,
as urge he did, that the sun was in his eyes, and that he couldn’t see
the catch. As the bowler fiercely pointed out, the sun was directly
behind him.

“It must have been the shadow, then,” said the Optimist unblushingly.
The roars of laughter that greeted his unscrupulous behaviour and his
subsequent effrontery were infectious. Even the Rector contributed a
hearty guffaw.

“Little Clumpton’s sold you this time!” cried T. S. M. in ecstasy. “You
may be very clever, Grace, but you’ve just got left.”

The bowler’s dignity and self-restraint were really very fine, however.
“He’ll simply get it all the worse when I go in,” was her Spartan
answer.

“We shall all take _extremely_ great care to collar anything you put
up, though,” said T.S.M., “so you’d better play _piano_ till you’ve got
the runs off.”

Grace continued to bowl even wilier and slower than before. Runs were
very difficult to obtain, but, nevertheless, I warily, cautiously
obtained a few. The bulk of them were made by means of leg touches and
pushes, and occasional big singles into the country. She was too slow
to cut; behind-the-wicket strokes were, by Rectory rules and the laws
of single wicket also, ineligible. But I was able once to regale myself
with a hit past cover for three. This was the only time, however, that
I got a chance to play my favourite stroke, as the bowler was evidently
of opinion that it was too expensive to feed. I had made twenty-three
by careful play when I got into two minds with one that curled
outrageously, and hung as well. I returned it as tamely as possible to
the bowler, who clasped it lovingly and said: “Poor old Dimmy! Did ’um,
then!”

Thereon she walked off under the trees to a little light and liquid
refreshment, which for her partook of the nature of that innocuous
concoction known as stone-ginger; whilst I ruefully unbuckled the pads
of the ironical Toddles.

All things considered, I felt that I had no reason to be dissatisfied
with my score. Twenty-three was quite the maximum of what I had
expected to get, as from the first I had not been disposed to
under-rate the excellence of Grace’s bowling. Indeed, she was kind
enough to say herself, in a reflective tone,--

“Your batting’s really very decent, Dimmy, very decent, indeed, you
know. So glad you watch the ball. Strikes me you’re the sort o’ man to
get runs on a bad wicket. With a bit more experience you ought to do
things. Oughtn’t he, boys?”

“Oh, of course,” said T. S. M. “If he can get twenty-three against your
bowlin’ he must be phenomenal. Reg’lar freak--fit for Barnum!”

“You’ve never got twenty-three against it, Tommy, anyhow,” said Grace.

“Such a beas’ly bore, don’t-cher-know,” said the Harrow captain
wearily, “to keep hittin’ girls to the fence, and then havin’ to go and
fag after it for ’em.”

“Why, you know quite well, Tommy,” said his sister, in a very pained
voice, “that I’ve never let you fetch a ball for me in your life. No,
never. It’s shameful of you, Tommy, to talk like that, ’cause it’s not
true. Look here, you men, it’s not true, is it?”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Toddles. “You’d scorn to do it, Grace. We all
know that. You’re far too good a sportsman--I mean sportswoman.”

“Stick to the man,” said Grace. “Sounds so much primer, somehow.”

“What’s Toddles up to now?” said Charlie suspiciously. “Whenever he
talks to Grace in that kind of way there’s something behind it. Does he
want to smoke in the drawing-room, or is it breakfast in bed? Grace,
distrust that man. Last time he was allowed to put sugar in his tea
with his fingers, instead of the tongs.”

“I like that,” said Grace. “Why, that’s what you all do, you horrible
creatures! Even Dimmy does.”

“‘Even Dimmy does!’” repeated Archie. “That’s your batting, my boy.”

And as I actually saw Grace blush at Archie’s pointed remark I began to
persuade myself that it really must be my batting.

When Grace went in, she did not put on pads, for a sufficient reason,
but it amused us all, and particularly her parent, to see her don a
right-hand batting glove.

“It’s all right, father,” said she. “Sha’n’t need it, of course. It’s
only out of respect for Dimmy, you know. Looks a bit cheeky to go in
with nothing on, as though you were only playing golf or marbles, or
something like that.”

“Or having a bath,” said Toddles, _sotto voce_.

It was characteristic of Grace that she never held people guilty of
laughing directly at _her_. And I am not sure, either, whether this
simpleness of mind did not spring from a sublime faith in herself and
all her works. Certainly when she set about getting the twenty-four
runs necessary for my defeat, she proceeded to wipe them off in a
magnificently confident manner. My first three balls yielded five.

This certainly would not do. I must try lobs. But why, oh, why had
my youth been so grievously misspent? Oh, why, I asked myself in the
bitterness of my spirit had I always been bat in hand at the nets,
slogging away for hours, instead of doing now and then a little honest
bowling? It made me giddy to think of what service a decent length and
a fair command of the ball would be to me at this moment. Oh, if I
could only bowl! If I could only bowl! Young men, I exhort you to heed
these awful consequences. Batting in itself is very alluring, but there
are other things in cricket besides a cut for four, delightful as that
is. When the other side are in, it is well to have a dim idea of how to
get them out. At this dread hour, owing to the errors of my childhood,
I had not, alas! the remotest notion how to do so.

Nevertheless, the veiled jeers of the field, the frank amusement
of the umpire, and the downright contempt of the person wielding
the willow, made my Anglo-Saxon once more rise within me. Grace’s
does-he-call-this-bowling air was most exasperating. But I still went
on in my dogged, defiant, get-there-sometime style. I might be without
hope, but I was determined that the enemy should not know it.

Bowling slow, elementary, underhand twisters, I kept running after them
up the pitch in a frankly dare-devil manner, and several times took
red-hot cracks travelling to mid-off about ten yards from Grace’s bat.
Runs continued to come, however, just as they thought fit apparently,
but my fielding was so whole-hearted that broad grins presently
succeeded derisive smiles on the faces of those who witnessed it. But
the five became fifteen in no time. Nine more and all was over. The
imminence of disaster nerved me to superhuman efforts. Grace mistimed
one ball a little, and as it rose from her bat for a short distance,
I sprawled arms and legs up the pitch, and literally hurled myself at
it. I just contrived to touch it with my finger-tips as it fell. Had it
come off it would have been something to talk about; as it was, it cost
divers seasoned cricketers a blink of astonishment.

[Illustration: “I just contrived to touch it.”

  _Willow, the King._]      [_Page 306._]

“Dimmy,” said the one wielding the willow, “aren’t you afraid o’ your
backbone at all?”

It was apparent that she was becoming impressed. With that thought I
recalled the words of the penetrating Archie: “All women have their
weakness. Grace’s is for good fielding.” I must show her what I could
do. After vainly striving to reach one that she pulled well wide of
mid-on for three, she said,--

“Dimmy, please don’t do that. It worries me. I’m so afraid that you’ll
twist yourself into something that could never be untied. That would be
horrible, wouldn’t it? And I’m _so_ afraid of your backbone.”

“It is in your own power,” said I, “to end these gyrations. You have
only got to get out, you know.”

Her score had now reached twenty. Four more and a life’s happiness was
wrecked. Hope there was none. She was thoroughly set, and capable of
doing anything with the miserable stuff that I was rolling up. It was
in vain that I altered the position of the field after the delivery
of every ball. She inevitably dispatched the one that followed past
the precise place from which the man had just been taken. Her batting
was really cruel in its complacence and resource. The grim gleam that
illuminated her look knocked at my heart. A gleam does _not_ knock
as a rule, I know, but many and strange things are allowed to happen
to the heart of a man in my desperate predicament. The light-minded
fieldsmen thought it quite a joke, however, and they proferred no end
of wise suggestions. Had I not better have my point a bit squarer; my
mid-off a bit deeper; my extra cover a bit more round; and the two men
guarding the cucumber frame standing in front of the cucumbers, instead
of sitting on the woodwork?

I thanked them in a chastened tone for being so very helpful.

My pitiful bowling has already been the subject of various painful
home truths. But I do believe that my fielding was not unworthy of
kind phrases. At least, it argues unusual excellence to gain the open
approbation of the great. Yet when I stopped three smashing half-volley
hits in sharp succession, and cut the knees of Archie’s unmentionables
in a fall I had in endeavouring to combine the duties of cover-point
and the bowler, I heard Grace sigh most distinctly, and Archie said,--

“Dimsdale, are these acrobatic performances intended to divert Grace’s
attention from run-getting? or are they merely to afford a little
variety entertainment to the lookers-on? If that’s the idea, I think
we can compliment you on a daring and original turn.”

But I repeat that I heard Grace distinctly sigh. Could it be that my
fielding was playing havoc with that relentless bosom? Oh, that this
be so! Our scores were now level. And was it not strange that, though
Grace had been making runs precisely as she pleased, she suddenly
ceased to get them altogether? Instead of playing a wonderfully
aggressive and confident game, she began to vacillate. Nay, she
half-heartedly blocked balls that she had been previously hitting to
the fence. What _could_ it mean? Was it possible that good fielding was
in truth the one weakness of Grace the unsusceptible? What more likely?
Was she not a cricketer to her finger-tips? and is not sound fielding
as likely to appeal to persons of that calibre as the higher virtues?

“What’s old Grace rotting at?” cried Charlie.

“My opinion is she wants Dimmy to bowl her,” said George.

“Just look how she’s nursing the bowling now,” the Optimist said.

“She might be playin’ Humphreys, the way in which she pokes at those
cuckoos,” said T. S. M.

Grace had now been more than two overs without getting a run. And the
agonized expression that she wore seemed to say quite plainly,

“Oh, Dimmy! _why_ don’t you bowl me?”

Yes, my fielding had done it. But of bowling her I was, alas!
physically incapable. In my anxiety to improve I got worse. Indeed, I
was so totally overborne by the requirements of the situation that I
must have given the match away myself by bowling a wide had not Grace
had the presence of mind to step across her wicket, and thereby just
succeed in covering a ball that looked like hitting the fat barrister
at point. Her face appeared to say, “Oh, Dimmy! _do_ keep off wides and
no balls!”

Next ball, however, she took the liberty, as was her arbitrary fashion,
of settling the business for herself: Grace deliberately knocked down
her wicket. Yes, I repeat it in bald prose: Grace deliberately knocked
down her wicket. As a preliminary, she withdrew her bat far away from
the ball, evidently in the forlorn hope that she would be bowled
outright. But as the ball did not happen to be straight by a good deal,
and seeing that so long as she remained in my own erratic trundling
constituted a source of danger in itself, therefore did she turn round
and reduce the stumps with the back of her bat.

“Why, Grace,” demanded the General Public eagerly, “what in thunder are
you playing at?”

“There’s no declaration law in the Rectory rules,” said Grace. “So a
side can’t declare its innings, don’t you see?”

“Been inadvertently omitted,” said Charlie.

“But what did you want to declare for?” said T. S. M. “You hadn’t won.”

“Yes, tell us why you wanted to declare,” said Toddles, with his
wickedest expression.

Perhaps it was the sun that made Grace so hot and red; but, be that as
it may, the fact must be put in history.

“’Cause I did,” said Grace.

“A feminine reason, I fear,” said the Rector.

“Well, I think it’s something like this,” said I, with rather more
valour than discretion: “there must be lots of times, don’t you know,
when a girl would like to declare, and she can’t declare, because,
according to the laws of the game, there’s no rule whereby she can
declare. You see it, don’t you?”

“Clear as mud,” said Charlie. “She can declare when she can’t declare,
and she---- Say it again, old chap. Certain to get the hang of it
before the end of the season.”

“O’ course, a girl can’t declare, you know, Charlie,” said Grace.

“Well, why a girl?” asked Toddles, hiding his face in his cap. “And why
should she want to declare? And what is it she wants to declare?”

“Depends on what you’re playing at,” said Archie darkly.

“I am afraid, gentlemen,” said the Rector, “that you are not entirely
familiar with the rules of the game. I think you may safely leave the
matter with Laura. I’ve always said that she had more purely technical
knowledge than all the rest of us put together.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Biffin, “but I’ve allus said the very same
about Miss Laura. Allus back _her_ opinion, I would. Although, begging
pardon, sir, I think she’s fair hout this time.”

“Clean bowled, Biffin, I suppose you mean?” said the Rector.

“Hout, sir, fair hout!” said that ancient villain, chuckling till the
score-book shook.

Meantime the Rector was patting his daughter’s cheek. And almost
simultaneously some person or persons unknown buffeted me violently in
the ribs. My suspicions rested on Toddles.



EPILOGUE


From _The Morning Post_:

  DIMSDALE--TRENTHAM.--On the 11th inst., at the Parish Church,
  Hickory, ----shire, by the Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, M.A., Richard
  Cranford, eldest son of the late William Dimsdale, to Laura Mary
  (“Grace”), only daughter of the Honourable the Reverend George
  Trentham, D.D., Rector of Saint Mary’s, Hickory.


THE END


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LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.



FOOTNOTES:


[A] The _Daily Chronicle_ has since investigated this and conclusively
proved it to be a fable. It seems that human excellence still has
altitudes to scale.

[B] It should be noted that at the Oval it is invariably “a crowd.” At
Lord’s it is correct to say “a company.”

[C] This incident of the toss seems so impossible that in the nature
of things it ought to be quite true. As a matter of fact, it is
quite true, having actually come within the writer’s experience.
Artistically, though, the accident of its occurrence makes it neither
the more defensible nor the less incredible. Art ought not to subscribe
to the Press Association.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Willow the king : The story of a cricket match" ***

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