Part of Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his father
Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:
... So you see it was really his fault. The Emperor of Germany has no
right to come and dig holes in our best wicket. Take a parallel case.
Suppose some idiot of a fellow (not that Uncle John's that, of course,
but you know what I mean) came and began rooting up your azaleas.
Wouldn't you want to say something cutting? I will apologize to Uncle
John, if you like; but still, I do think he might have gone somewhere
else if he really wanted to dig. So you see, etc., etc.
V
Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin's, to his sister Mrs James
Anthony:
Dear Dolly--Thanks awfully for your letter, and thank Jim for his
message. He's a ripper. I'm awfully glad you married him and not that
rotter, Thompson, who used to hang on so. I hope the most marvellous
infant on earth is flourishing. And now about Uncle John. Really, I am
jolly glad I did say all that to him. We played Rugborough yesterday,
and the wicket was simply vile. They won the toss, and made two hundred
and ten. Of course, the wicket was all right at one end, and that's
where they made most of their runs. I was wicket-keeping as usual, and
I felt awfully ashamed of the beastly pitch when their captain asked me
if it was the football-field. Of course, he wouldn't have said that if
he hadn't been a pal of mine, but it was probably what the rest of the
team thought, only they were too polite to say so. When we came to bat
it was worse than ever. I went in first with Welch--that's the fellow
who stopped a week at home a few years ago; I don't know whether you
remember him. He got out in the first over, caught off a ball that
pitched where Uncle John had been prospecting, and jumped up. It was
rotten luck, of course, and worse was to follow, for by half-past five
we had eight wickets down for just over the hundred, and only young
Scott, who's simply a slogger, and another fellow to come in. Well,
Scott came in. I had made about sixty then, and was fairly well
set--and he started simply mopping up the bowling. He gave a chance
every over as regular as clockwork, and it was always missed, and then
he would make up for it with two or three tremendous whangs--a safe
four every time. It wasn't batting. It was more like golf. Well, this
went on for some time, and we began to get hopeful again, having got a
hundred and eighty odd. I just kept up my wicket, while Scott hit. Then
he got caught, and the last man, a fellow called Moore, came in. I'd
put him in the team as a bowler, but he could bat a little, too, on
occasions, and luckily this was one of them. There were only eleven to
win, and I had the bowling. I was feeling awfully fit, and put their
slow man clean over the screen twice running, which left us only three
to get. Then it was over, and Moore played the fast man in grand style,
though he didn't score. Well, I got the bowling again, and half-way
through the over I carted a half-volley into the Pav., and that gave us
the match. Moore hung on for a bit and made about ten, and then got
bowled. We made 223 altogether, of which I had managed to get
seventy-eight, not out. It pulls my average up a good bit. Rather
decent, isn't it? The fellows rotted about a good deal, and chaired me
into the Pav., but it was Scott who won us the match, I think. He made
ninety-four. But Uncle John nearly did for us with his beastly
walking-stick. On a good wicket we might have made any number. I don't
know how the affair will end. Keep me posted up in the governor's
symptoms, and write again soon.--Your affectionate brother, _Dick_
PS.--On looking over this letter, I find I have taken it for granted
that you know all about the Uncle John affair. Probably you do, but, in
case you don't, it was this way. You see, I was going, etc., etc.