AT THE NETS
There are few better things in life than a public school summer term.
The winter term is good, especially towards the end, and there are
points, though not many, about the Easter term: but it is in the
summer that one really appreciates public school life. The freedom of
it, after the restrictions of even the most easy-going private school,
is intoxicating. The change is almost as great as that from public
school to ’Varsity.
For Mike the path was made particularly easy. The only drawback to
going to a big school for the first time is the fact that one is made
to feel so very small and inconspicuous. New boys who have been
leading lights at their private schools feel it acutely for the first
week. At one time it was the custom, if we may believe writers of a
generation or so back, for boys to take quite an embarrassing interest
in the newcomer. He was asked a rain of questions, and was, generally,
in the very centre of the stage. Nowadays an absolute lack of interest
is the fashion. A new boy arrives, and there he is, one of a crowd.
Mike was saved this salutary treatment to a large extent, at first by
virtue of the greatness of his family, and, later, by his own
performances on the cricket field. His three elder brothers were
objects of veneration to most Wrykynians, and Mike got a certain
amount of reflected glory from them. The brother of first-class
cricketers has a dignity of his own. Then Bob was a help. He was on
the verge of the cricket team and had been the school full-back for
two seasons. Mike found that people came up and spoke to him, anxious
to know if he were Jackson’s brother; and became friendly when he
replied in the affirmative. Influential relations are a help in every
stage of life.
It was Wyatt who gave him his first chance at cricket. There were nets
on the first afternoon of term for all old colours of the three teams
and a dozen or so of those most likely to fill the vacant places.
Wyatt was there, of course. He had got his first eleven cap in the
previous season as a mighty hitter and a fair slow bowler. Mike met
him crossing the field with his cricket bag.
“Hullo, where are you off to?” asked Wyatt. “Coming to watch the
nets?”
Mike had no particular programme for the afternoon. Junior cricket had
not begun, and it was a little difficult to know how to fill in the
time.
“I tell you what,” said Wyatt, “nip into the house and shove on some
things, and I’ll try and get Burgess to let you have a knock later
on.”
This suited Mike admirably. A quarter of an hour later he was sitting
at the back of the first eleven net, watching the practice.
Burgess, the captain of the Wrykyn team, made no pretence of being a
bat. He was the school fast bowler and concentrated his energies on
that department of the game. He sometimes took ten minutes at the
wicket after everybody else had had an innings, but it was to bowl
that he came to the nets.
He was bowling now to one of the old colours whose name Mike did not
know. Wyatt and one of the professionals were the other two bowlers.
Two nets away Firby-Smith, who had changed his pince-nez for a pair of
huge spectacles, was performing rather ineffectively against some very
bad bowling. Mike fixed his attention on the first eleven man.
He was evidently a good bat. There was style and power in his batting.
He had a way of gliding Burgess’s fastest to leg which Mike admired
greatly. He was succeeded at the end of a quarter of an hour by
another eleven man, and then Bob appeared.
It was soon made evident that this was not Bob’s day. Nobody is at his
best on the first day of term; but Bob was worse than he had any right
to be. He scratched forward at nearly everything, and when Burgess,
who had been resting, took up the ball again, he had each stump
uprooted in a regular series in seven balls. Once he skied one of
Wyatt’s slows over the net behind the wicket; and Mike, jumping up,
caught him neatly.
“Thanks,” said Bob austerely, as Mike returned the ball to him. He
seemed depressed.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Wyatt went up to Burgess.
“Burgess,” he said, “see that kid sitting behind the net?”
“With the naked eye,” said Burgess. “Why?”
“He’s just come to Wain’s. He’s Bob Jackson’s brother, and I’ve a sort
of idea that he’s a bit of a bat. I told him I’d ask you if he could
have a knock. Why not send him in at the end net? There’s nobody there
now.”
Burgess’s amiability off the field equalled his ruthlessness when
bowling.
“All right,” he said. “Only if you think that I’m going to sweat to
bowl to him, you’re making a fatal error.”
“You needn’t do a thing. Just sit and watch. I rather fancy this kid’s
something special.”
* * * * *
Mike put on Wyatt’s pads and gloves, borrowed his bat, and walked
round into the net.
“Not in a funk, are you?” asked Wyatt, as he passed.
Mike grinned. The fact was that he had far too good an opinion of
himself to be nervous. An entirely modest person seldom makes a good
batsman. Batting is one of those things which demand first and
foremost a thorough belief in oneself. It need not be aggressive, but
it must be there.
Wyatt and the professional were the bowlers. Mike had seen enough of
Wyatt’s bowling to know that it was merely ordinary “slow tosh,” and
the professional did not look as difficult as Saunders. The first
half-dozen balls he played carefully. He was on trial, and he meant to
take no risks. Then the professional over-pitched one slightly on the
off. Mike jumped out, and got the full face of the bat on to it. The
ball hit one of the ropes of the net, and nearly broke it.
“How’s that?” said Wyatt, with the smile of an impresario on the first
night of a successful piece.
“Not bad,” admitted Burgess.
A few moments later he was still more complimentary. He got up and
took a ball himself.
Mike braced himself up as Burgess began his run. This time he was more
than a trifle nervous. The bowling he had had so far had been tame.
This would be the real ordeal.
As the ball left Burgess’s hand he began instinctively to shape for a
forward stroke. Then suddenly he realised that the thing was going to
be a yorker, and banged his bat down in the block just as the ball
arrived. An unpleasant sensation as of having been struck by a
thunderbolt was succeeded by a feeling of relief that he had kept the
ball out of his wicket. There are easier things in the world than
stopping a fast yorker.
“Well played,” said Burgess.
Mike felt like a successful general receiving the thanks of the
nation.
The fact that Burgess’s next ball knocked middle and off stumps out of
the ground saddened him somewhat; but this was the last tragedy that
occurred. He could not do much with the bowling beyond stopping it and
feeling repetitions of the thunderbolt experience, but he kept up his
end; and a short conversation which he had with Burgess at the end of
his innings was full of encouragement to one skilled in reading
between the lines.
“Thanks awfully,” said Mike, referring to the square manner in which
the captain had behaved in letting him bat.
“What school were you at before you came here?” asked Burgess.
“A private school in Hampshire,” said Mike. “King-Hall’s. At a place
called Emsworth.”
“Get much cricket there?”
“Yes, a good lot. One of the masters, a chap called Westbrook, was an
awfully good slow bowler.”
Burgess nodded.
“You don’t run away, which is something,” he said.
Mike turned purple with pleasure at this stately compliment. Then,
having waited for further remarks, but gathering from the captain’s
silence that the audience was at an end, he proceeded to unbuckle his
pads. Wyatt overtook him on his way to the house.
“Well played,” he said. “I’d no idea you were such hot stuff. You’re a
regular pro.”
“I say,” said Mike gratefully, “it was most awfully decent of you
getting Burgess to let me go in. It was simply ripping of you.”
“Oh, that’s all right. If you don’t get pushed a bit here you stay for
ages in the hundredth game with the cripples and the kids. Now you’ve
shown them what you can do you ought to get into the Under Sixteen
team straight away. Probably into the third, too.”
“By Jove, that would be all right.”
“I asked Burgess afterwards what he thought of your batting, and he
said, ‘Not bad.’ But he says that about everything. It’s his highest
form of praise. He says it when he wants to let himself go and simply
butter up a thing. If you took him to see N. A. Knox bowl, he’d say he
wasn’t bad. What he meant was that he was jolly struck with your
batting, and is going to play you for the Under Sixteen.”
“I hope so,” said Mike.
The prophecy was fulfilled. On the following Wednesday there was a
match between the Under Sixteen and a scratch side. Mike’s name was
among the Under Sixteen. And on the Saturday he was playing for the
third eleven in a trial game.
“This place is ripping,” he said to himself, as he saw his name on the
list. “Thought I should like it.”
And that night he wrote a letter to his father, notifying him of the
fact.