"Why should I? I'm out to enjoy myself. I'm a human being, not a target.
Besides, long-stop will lose interest in the game if he has nothing to
do."
"They don't have long-stops in first-class cricket," grumbled the
Doctor. "You've got no proper pride."
Then I said:
"Of course, if you are mistaking this display for first-class cricket,
it's no good arguing with you."
In his second over the Doctor bowled a shade straighter, and began
knocking the batsmen about, and hurting them and frightening them. If
they had only kept in front of the wicket, and put their bats between
their legs out of the way, they might have been safe enough, but they
dashed nervously about and tried to escape; and the ball would shoot and
hit their toes, or rise and threaten their heads, or break back into
their stomachs. Then the bowler got a man "retired hurt," and a regular
panic set in.
"I'm keeping down the run-getting, anyhow," said the elated Doctor.
"Yes, and you'll have to mend all these local celebrities for nothing
after the match," replied our Treasure.
The latter had taken several more wickets, and now the score stood at
sixty, with three further blacks to bat. About this time I made an
appeal to the umpire upon a question of stumping a man, but he had his
back turned and was buying a piece of sugarcane. He apologised
profusely. He said:
"I'se too sorry, Massa, jus' too sorry, but I'se dam hungry, Sar."
Hungry! Whoever heard of an umpire being hungry? Thirsty they may be,
and generally are, but hunger is a paltry plea to raise.
Soon afterwards, our black stoker made two brilliant catches, one after
the other, the Treasure quickly bowled their last man, and the innings
closed for seventy-three runs.
[Illustration: "BLACK STOKER MADE TWO BRILLIANT CATCHES."]
Then the rival teams scattered through St. Thomas for luncheon, the
spectators dispersed, and the goats had the cricket ground all to
themselves until the afternoon.
Some lively betting took place during our meal. The Model Man was
gloomy, and doubted the ability of his eleven to make the necessary
score on such a wicket; but the Doctor appeared extremely sanguine, and
the Fourth Officer actually guaranteed half the runs himself. He said:
"Though not a finished bat, yet it often happens that I come off with
the willow when I fail with the leather."
It struck me that if his success with one was proportionate to his
failure with the other, there seemed just reason for hoping he would get
into three figures that afternoon.
Our Captain grew very anxious about the order of going in. Finally, he
determined to start with the black stoker and me. He said:
"You play steadily and cautiously and let him hit. If it chances to be
his day, we may, after all, win with ten wickets in hand. Stranger
things have happened at cricket."
"Not many," I replied; "but we will do our best."
Our best, unfortunately, did not amount to much. The match was resumed
at half-past three, before an increased gathering of onlookers; and
three distinct rounds of applause greeted the gigantic stoker and me as
we marched to the wickets. It proved a fortunate thing that we got the
applause then, because we might have missed it later. My own innings,
for instance, did not afford the smallest loophole for enthusiasm at any
time.
[Illustration: "SOMEWHERE IN THE SMALL RIBS."]
The black certainly began well. He hit the first ball he received clean
out of the ground for six runs, but the second ball retaliated and smote
him direfully somewhere in the small ribs. Thereupon, he fell down and
rolled twenty yards to allay the agony, after which he rose up and
withdrew, declaring that he had met his death, and that no power on
earth would induce him to bat again. These negroes never forget an
injury of this kind. If our black stoker lives over to-morrow, he will
probably collect his colleagues from the ship, and row ashore by night
and seek out the local bowler, and make it very unrestful and exciting
for him.
The Model Man now came in, but he had the misfortune to lose my
assistance almost immediately. I was caught at short leg after a patient
innings of ten, slightly marred, however, by about the same number of
chances. The Fourth Officer took my place. He began by nearly running
out his Captain. If point had not stopped to dance and rub his leg, the
wicket must have fallen. Then the new-comer settled down and played with
great care, and irritated the bowlers extremely by giving them advice
and criticising their efforts. Once they sent him so slow a ball that it
never reached the wicket at all. Then our Fourth Officer rushed out and
hit it after it had stopped, and so, rather ingeniously, scored two. It
was a revolutionary sort of stroke, and the umpire said it must not be
counted, but the batsman insisted upon having the runs put down. Of
course, to argue with any umpire is madness. This black one simply
waited for the next over, and then gave our Fourth Officer out "leg
before." There was a great argument, but the umpire's ruling had to be
upheld, and the batsman retired, declaring that he would never play
cricket with savages again as long as he lived. He said:
"In the first place the ball was a wide, and in the second, after
breaking a yard and a half, it hit my elbow. Then that black ass gives
me out 'leg before.' It's sickening. Emancipation is the biggest error
of the century. I'm going back to the ship." But he did not. He found
something under a yellow parasol that comforted him.
The Doctor came in next, and hit the first ball he received over the
bowler's head for three. Encouraged by this success, he ran half across
the ground to the next one, missed it, and would have been stumped
under ordinary circumstances, but the ball, instead of going to the
wicket-keeper, shunted off at a sort of junction, and proceeded to
short-slip. He, desiring the honour of defeating the Doctor, would not
give the ball up, and tried to put the wicket down himself. This the
outraged custodian of the stumps refused to permit, and while they were
wrangling about it, and the rest of the team were screaming directions,
our batsman galloped safely back amidst loud applause.
[Illustration: "THERE WAS A GREAT ARGUMENT."]
We made fifty-eight for four wickets, the Model Man being the next to
succumb. He had performed well, in something approaching style, for
thirty runs. After him came the Treasure. He played forward very tamely
at everything, until a ball suddenly got up and skinned two of his
knuckles. Then he grew excited, and began hitting very hard, and making
runs at a tremendous pace.
Meanwhile the Doctor, finding his wicket still intact, suddenly became
enthusiastic and took extraordinary interest in his innings. Between
each ball he marched about the pitch and grubbed up tufts of grass and
threw away stones, and patted the different elevations and acclivities
with his bat. But he might just as well have patted the Alps, or any
other mountain range. He hit a fast ball straight up into the air, when
only five or six runs were wanted to win the match. It was one of those
awkward, lofty hits that half the field can get to, if they only look
alive. In this case, four negroes were all waiting to secure him, so the
Doctor escaped again. Then, evidently under the impression that he bore
a charmed life, he began taking great liberties, and pulling straight
balls and strolling about out of his ground, and so forth. Finally, amid
some intricate manoeuvres, he jumped on to his own wicket, and retired
well pleased with his performance. The Treasure went on hitting and
being hit for a few minutes longer; then he made the winning stroke, and
the contest came to a happy conclusion.
With one or two exceptions, everybody had much enjoyed the match; and
that night, I recollect, we sat and smoked late on the deck of the
"Rhine," fought our battle once more, explained our theories of cricket
to one another, and agreed that it was a great and grand amusement.
"But," said the Fourth Officer, "it is not a pastime in which your
nigger will ever excel. He cannot learn the rules, let alone play the
game."
"No," I answered, "he does not excel at it, because, 'unstable as
water,' the Ethiopian will never excel at anything; but he does quite as
well as one might have expected, and, if he had a better ground, might
play a better game."
Certainly that cricket ground requires attention. To level it, though
doubtless an engineering feat, should not be impossible. If an
earthquake could be arranged, it might leave a surface for steam rollers
to begin working upon; but no mere patching or tinkering will answer the
purpose. Something definite and drastic and colossal must be done to the
cricket ground we played on at St. Thomas before it can become fairly
worthy of the name.
[Illustration: R. M. Ballantyne]
_My First Book._