I think there has not been so much on a cricket match since the day when
Sir Horace Mann walked about Broad Ha'penny agitatedly cutting down the
daisies with his stick. And, be it remembered, the heroes of Hambledon
played for money and renown only, while David was champion of a lady. A
lady! May we not prettily say of two ladies? There were no spectators of
our contest except now and again some loiterer in the Gardens who little
thought what was the stake for which we played, but cannot we conceive
Barbara standing at the ropes and agitatedly cutting down the daisies
every time David missed the ball? I tell you, this was the historic
match of the Gardens.
David wanted to play on a pitch near the Round Pond with which he is
familiar, but this would have placed me at a disadvantage, so I insisted
on unaccustomed ground, and we finally pitched stumps in the Figs. We
could not exactly pitch stumps, for they are forbidden in the Gardens,
but there are trees here and there which have chalk-marks on them
throughout the summer, and when you take up your position with a bat
near one of these you have really pitched stumps. The tree we selected
is a ragged yew which consists of a broken trunk and one branch, and
I viewed the ground with secret satisfaction, for it falls slightly
at about four yards' distance from the tree, and this exactly suits my
style of bowling.
I won the toss and after examining the wicket decided to take first
knock. As a rule when we play the wit at first flows free, but on this
occasion I strode to the crease in an almost eerie silence. David had
taken off his blouse and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and his teeth were
set, so I knew he would begin by sending me down some fast ones.
His delivery is underarm and not inelegant, but he sometimes tries a
round-arm ball, which I have seen double up the fielder at square leg.
He has not a good length, but he varies his action bewilderingly, and
has one especially teasing ball which falls from the branches just as
you have stepped out of your ground to look for it. It was not, however,
with his teaser that he bowled me that day. I had notched a three and
two singles, when he sent me down a medium to fast which got me in two
minds and I played back to it too late. Now, I am seldom out on a really
grassy wicket for such a meagre score, and as David and I changed places
without a word, there was a cheery look on his face that I found very
galling. He ran in to my second ball and cut it neatly to the on for a
single, and off my fifth and sixth he had two pretty drives for three,
both behind the wicket. This, however, as I hoped, proved the undoing of
him, for he now hit out confidently at everything, and with his score at
nine I beat him with my shooter.
The look was now on my face.
I opened my second innings by treating him with uncommon respect, for
I knew that his little arm soon tired if he was unsuccessful, and then
when he sent me loose ones I banged him to the railings. What cared I
though David's lips were twitching.
When he ultimately got past my defence, with a jumpy one which broke
awkwardly from the off, I had fetched twenty-three so that he needed
twenty to win, a longer hand than he had ever yet made. As I gave him
the bat he looked brave, but something wet fell on my hand, and then a
sudden fear seized me lest David should not win.
At the very outset, however, he seemed to master the bowling, and soon
fetched about ten runs in a classic manner. Then I tossed him a Yorker
which he missed and it went off at a tangent as soon as it had reached
the tree. “Not out,” I cried hastily, for the face he turned to me was
terrible.
Soon thereafter another incident happened, which I shall always recall
with pleasure. He had caught the ball too high on the bat, and I just
missed the catch. “Dash it all!” said I irritably, and was about to
resume bowling, when I noticed that he was unhappy. He hesitated, took
up his position at the wicket, and then came to me manfully. “I am a
cad,” he said in distress, “for when the ball was in the air I prayed.”
He had prayed that I should miss the catch, and as I think I have
already told you, it is considered unfair in the Gardens to pray for
victory.
My splendid David! He has the faults of other little boys, but he has
a noble sense of fairness. “We shall call it a no-ball, David,” I said
gravely.
I suppose the suspense of the reader is now painful, and therefore I
shall say at once that David won the match with two lovely fours, the
one over my head and the other to leg all along the ground. When I came
back from fielding this last ball I found him embracing his bat, and
to my sour congratulations he could at first reply only with hysterical
sounds. But soon he was pelting home to his mother with the glorious
news.
And that is how we let Barbara in.