II

Windlecombe Mead, where the village cricket matches have been played from

time immemorial, lies on the gently sloping ground between Arun river and

the hills. It was the day of the great annual match with Stavisham, and

most of the older villagers had congregated on the benches round the

scoring-tent, when, in the sweltering heat of early afternoon, I hurried

down to the field with pencil and book. The townsmen, it seemed, had won

the toss, and had elected to put the home-team in. Young Tom Clemmer and

young Daniel Dray were already at the wickets, taking middle. I looked

round at the glum, set faces of the spectators, and felt tragedy in the

air.

‘Fower men an’ a parson,’ whispered the old cobbler to me behind his

hand, ’a ould rickety chap as caan’t run, an’ five bits o’ lads! Drat

that there hay! Heough! Now they’re aff!’

The umpire had called Play. The fast Stavisham bowler—we knew him of

old—retired into open country, wheeled, and bore down on the crease like

a bull at a gate. Young Daniel ducked, then turned up a face of

indignant scarlet. But the ball had gone by for two, and a chuckle of

relief spread through the crowd. The bowler prepared to try again.

‘Dan’l’s got th’ sun in ’s eyes,’ said old Dray anxiously, as he watched.

‘’A never can bide that top wicket! Steady now, Dannie, an’ keep a

straight bat!’

He roared out the last words. And then, in a moment, we were all on our

feet in consternation. The ball had never left the bowler’s hand—that

much we were sure of. Daniel stood at his wicket safe and sound, but Tom

Clemmer was coming back to the tent, followed by a derisive chorus from

the whole field.

‘Hout, Tom? Never hout!’

‘What i’ th’ wureld houted ye, lad?’

‘Hout! Never!—’tis a swindle, Tom!’

Amidst the eager exclamations of his friends, Tom Clemmer strode into the

tent, and began slowly to unbuckle his pads. All the time he stared

fixedly into space.

‘I could ha’ hup wi’ my fist,’ he said, after a moment’s wrathful

silence, addressing no one in particular, ’an’ I could ha’ gi’en that

there grocer-chap sech a— But there! ’tis no sense yammerin’! Doan’t ye

run out, sir, or ’a ’ll ha’ ye, same as ’a had me!’

He spoke now to the curate, who was preparing to go to the wicket, and

the truth dawned upon us at last. The bowler had played Tom a very

ancient and very mean-spirited trick. Old Clemmer, regardless of the

agony it caused him, stamped his swaddled foot upon the ground.

‘An’ to think, Tom!’ he groaned, ‘as ye lit up th’ forge-fire special for

’un only laast Sunday, ’cause his ould mare—’

But we had no thought for anything but the disaster that had befallen us,

and all that was now imminent. With Tom Clemmer, the one hope of

Windlecombe, out of the fight, what might happen to the rest? With bated

breath we watched for the third ball. Young Daniel drove it over the

bowler’s head, and with a trembling pencil I put down two to his name.

Playing with desperate care, he added two more before the end of the

over, and we began to pluck up heart again. Young Tom came and stood

behind me. His big thumb travelled down the list of names on the

scoring-book.

‘’Tis not lost yet!’ he said with reviving cheerfulness. ‘Dan’l may do

well, wanst ’a gets set. An’ belike Mr. Weaverly ’ull bide out a bit.

Then there be Huggins wi’ his luck; an’ who knaws but what the boys ’ull

account fer a dozen or so atween ’em?’

I had now time, as the fielders were accommodating themselves to the

left-handed batting of the curate, to glance down the list. The last

name came upon me as an utter surprise.

‘What? Never old Stallwood! Why, he must be seventy, if he’s a—’

‘Ay! Cap’n Stall’ard sure enow! ’Tis a joke, more ’n anything. But

ne’er another livin’ sowl there wur, as cud— Oh, Jupitty! Mr.

Weaverly’s hout leg-afore!’

But it was not Mr. Weaverly’s leg. With a white face, his body bent to

the shape of an inverted letter L, and both arms clasped about his

middle, the curate came tip-toeing back to the tent. He sat down

silently in a corner. Huggins—a lean, red-whiskered giant in

moleskins—burst out into the sunshine and made for the wicket, waving his

bat like a war-club and murmuring imprecations as he went.

‘Now ’tis jest touch-an’-go,’ said young Tom in my ear. ‘If ’a hits ’em,

they’ll travel, you mark me! ’Twill be eether th’ river, th’ town, or

Windle Hill.’

Huggins stood at the wicket, legs wide apart, and bat held high over his

head. The bowling now was swift, stealthy, underhand. The ball sped

down the pitch, never leaving the grass for an inch. A crack rang out in

the dazzling July sunshine. Daniel Dray started to run, but the batsman

waved him back. Huggins stood watching the skied ball until it came to

ground in the next field. He laughed uproariously.

‘What d’ye think o’ ee?’

It was another four, and that made eleven in all. Huggins swung up his

bat, and spread his great hob-nailed boots for a still mightier effort.

The ball hissed down the pitch. Huggins caught it as it hopped from a

tussock. Like a lark it soared up into the blue, and we heard a clear

musical plunk as it dropped into the river. A roar of delight burst from

the crowd.

‘Lost ball!’ shouted Tom behind me. ‘Hooroar! Seventeen!’

Huggins spat upon his hands, took a reef in his leather belt, and lifted

his bat again. The little underhand bowler came crouching up to the

crease, and launched the new ball almost from his knees. Wide and wild

it flew this time. But there was a sound of crashing timber; Huggins’s

wicket scattered into space, stumps and bails whirling together half-way

up the pitch. He had hit the wrong thing.

‘An’ now,’ wailed poor Tom Clemmer, ‘’tis as good as finished. Dan’l

wunt ha’ no chaance. Jest as well declare, an’ ha’ done wi’ it. Th’

boys?—they’ll be all done in a hover, an’—’

‘Well, an’ what about th’ Cap’n, Tom?’

It was the voice of the Captain himself, and we all turned to look. He

was leaning comfortably against the tent pole, the very picture of an

old, superannuated forecastle-hand. He wore his usual vast faded blue

suit. A seaman’s cap with hard shiny peak gripped his bald head from the

rear. His red face swam in joviality and perspiration. Tom regarded him

with mingled respect and doubt.

‘Ye caan’t run, Maast’ Stall’ard.’

‘Trew, Tom!’

‘An’ ye ha’ant touched a crickut bat fer thirty year.’

‘Trew agen,’ returned the Captain serenely.

‘Ha, hum! well! a good plucked-un ye be, anyways. Now then, Dickie!’

The first small boy set forth over the sunny stretch of grass that lay

between the tent and the waiting team. Very small and insignificant he

looked in his school-corduroys, and leg-pads that reached well-nigh up to

his waist. His advent was greeted with ribaldry from all parts of the

field. We heard Daniel Dray admonishing the boy as he came smiling up to

the pitch.

‘Now, Dickie, doan’t ye dare run ’til I shouts to ye, an’ then run as if

_He_ wur after ye. Hould your bat straight, ye young varmint! Now then,

look hout! There! what did I tell ye?’

Dickie’s wicket was down, and Dickie himself was running back to the tent

vastly relieved.

‘Out wi’ ye, Georgie Huggins! An’ do as well as your faather!’ cried Tom

Clemmer encouragingly. ‘’Tis hover, an’ Dan’l’s got th’ play now. Oh,

Dan’l, Dan’l! if only ’twur you an’ me!’

But, playing with the ingenuity as well as the courage of despair, young

Daniel Dray now began to show his true mettle. Odd runs he refused,

taking only even numbers, so that each time the bowling fell to his lot

again. At the end of the over, he stole a desperate single with the same

object in view. He reached home safe enough, but Georgie was run out.

Boy Number Two had been disposed of at the cost of a gallant six.

Following the same tactics, young Daniel eked out the remaining three

boys with still more crafty skill. When at length old Stallwood, the

last man, launched out into the sunlight to show the town what he

remembered of cricket, the score had risen to forty-nine, and our spirits

with it. We cheered him lustily as he went.

‘Wan more,’ quoth Tom Clemmer, ‘jest wan, an’ I’ll light me pipe. There

be allers a chaance wi’ fifty. Lorsh! Look at th’ Cap’n!’

Three times on his way to the pitch he had stopped, turned, and waved his

cap in acknowledgment of the ovation given him. And now he was greeting

the Stavishamites each by name, and shaking hands with the wicket-keeper.

He got to the crease at last and grounded his bat. The next moment the

whole field had left their places and run for the tent, leaving the

Captain standing alone and amazed at his wicket.

‘’A doan’t knaw ’a be hout,’ said Tom. ‘D’ ye onnerstand? ’A never

heerd th’ bawler shout, an’ never seed th’ ball acomin’. Belike ’a

thinks they be all gone fer a drink, to hearten ’em at the sight o’ sech

a crickutter!’

And being free for a time, I took upon myself the task of walking out to

the Captain, and breaking the news to him as gently as I could.

It was now Windlecombe’s turn to take the field, and Tom Clemmer led out

his team with a good heart, in spite of its tail of juveniles. Daniel

Dray and the Rev. Mr. Weaverly were our first, indeed our only bowlers.

One of the first batsmen for Stavisham was Daniel’s ancient foe, the

grocer; and we watched the beginning of play with breathless interest,

for we knew Daniel would aim to kill. He grubbed savagely in the

sawdust, then sent the first ball hurtling down the pitch.

The old men were still upon the benches outside, and in that quarter

sympathy with Windlecombe was as staunch as ever. But in the scoring

tent I sat amidst enemies now. The townsmen crowded behind me, a

humorously sarcastic crew.

‘Fifty to beat? My ould Aunt Mary! D’ ye reckon we’ll do it, Bill?’

‘Dunno. ’Tis ser’ous fer Stavisham. Only eleven on us, there be.

Likely March wunt do ’t off his own bat—no, not ’arf!’

‘That there tinker-cove’s agoin’ to bowl fust. There ’ee goos! Wot a —’

The rest was drowned in a thunderclap of shouting. There was a general

stampede among the spectators. For the grocer had driven Daniel’s first

ball clean into the tent.

It was a bad beginning for Windlecombe, and bad rapidly changed to worse.

Young Daniel bowled steadily and coolly for the first over, in spite of

continuous punishment; but thereafter he lost first his temper, and then

his head. The smiling grocer played him to all points of the compass;

and the more the grocer smiled, the more wildly erratic Daniel’s bowling

grew. As for the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, he could do no more than send meek,

ingenuous balls trundling diffidently up the pitch; and he was skied with

heartrending regularity. The batsmen kept continually running. The

little tent seemed to belly out on all sides with the cheering, as a sail

with wind.

‘Thirty up!’

‘Thirty fer nauthin’!’

‘Thirty-one! And another’! Thirty-two! Garn, March! Wot a wazegoose!

Thirty—’

‘Five! ’Ooray!’

The shout went off in my ear like a punt gun. And then there fell a

sudden silence about me, as all strained eyes and ears out to the field.

Some altercation was going on, but not between members of the opposing

sides. ‘Drop ut, ye ould fule!’ I heard Tom Clemmer roar; and, peering

over the crowd, I saw Captain Stallwood, ball in hand, walking up to the

pitch. He rolled up his sleeves as he came.

‘Drop ut, I tell ye!’ cried Tom once more, ‘’tis crickut we be playin’,

not maarbles, man! Gimme that ball, Stall’ard, or I’ll— Lorsh! what be

come to th’ ould—’

The rest was a confused wrangle amongst the whole team. Presently, to

our amazement, we saw all drift back to their posts, and old Stallwood

take his place triumphantly at the bowling-crease. In the dead quiet

that followed, I heard the grocer chuckle richly, as he got ready to

smite the Captain all over the field.

The old man stood stock still on the crease, eyeing the batsman solemnly,

the ball held low down between his knees. So long he remained in this

posture, that at length impatient exclamations began to break out on all

sides.

‘Well! now ye ha’ got un, Stall’ard, let ’n goo, mate!’

‘’Tain’t i’ church ye be, Cap’n. ’Tis crickut!’

‘Bawl up, gaffer! We warnts to get hoame afore daark!’

And from the grocer, leaning with exaggerated weariness on his bat:

‘Doan’t ye be i’ no sorter hurry, ould bluebottle! But when y’ are

ready, just send us a postcard, will ye?’

The Captain’s hand went slowly up, the ball held curiously against his

wrist. He launched it with a sudden sidelong twist. As it rose high

into the air, I could see that it went wide and off, even from my

position in the tent. With a laugh the batsman strode out half a dozen

yards to meet it. A moment later he was gazing back aghast at his

splayed wicket. The Captain’s rich husky voice pealed out above the din:

‘There be a poun’ o’ butter fer ’ee!’

And now we were the frantic spectators of a drama that gained in

thrilling interest with every moment. The new batsman arrived at the

wicket, and again old Stallwood sent the ball sailing down the pitch,

wide as ever, but this time to leg. I watched it more carefully now.

Though it made a high curve, it rose not a hair’s-breadth after touching

ground, but shot straight in. Again we saw the glint of a falling bail

behind the wicket. The Captain thrust both bare arms deep in his

trousers-flap, and silently grinned. The third man did little better.

He succeeded in blocking a couple of the balls; but the next, more

crooked than any, sent him dumbfounded back to the tent.

There was no more ribaldry about me now. The fourth batsman sallied out

amidst a rustle of whispered apprehension and hard-drawn breaths, and

returned almost immediately to the same tense atmosphere. Outside on the

benches, the old men were rocking on their seats with delight, like trees

in a wind. Bleak, the cobbler, was careering up and down, beside himself

with joy.

‘Fower in a hover!’ he shouted. ‘I reckons I knaws summat about leather,

but I ne’er seed it do the like o’ that! ’Tain’t bawlin’, I tell ye:

’tis magic!’

And now young Daniel Dray was bowling again, and bowling with renewed

courage and skill. All his old command of length and break had returned

to him. By the end of his over, another wicket had fallen, and the score

had risen no higher than forty-three. The Captain took the ball once

more, this time without any opposition. At once the fearsome whispering

in the tent grew still. Almost we forgot to breathe, as the great dark

hairy fist came slowly up into the sunlight.

But the Captain had changed his tactics. Instead of the leisurely,

high-curving delivery with which he had done such execution hitherto, the

ball left his hand straight and low and as quick as light. It pitched no

more than an inch or two in front of the waiting bat, then struck

vertically upward. A crack resounded through the field. The batsman

staggered—clapped a hand to his head. A moment more and he was picking

an uneven course towards the tent, thoroughly satiated with the Captain’s

magic.

Very slowly the next man set out for the pitch. He stopped on the way to

tighten a strap of his leg-guard, and again unconscionably long to adjust

his batting-glove. Once he turned back a tallowy face, and seemed to be

in two minds about something. But at length he got to the wicket and

grounded his bat. The long arm uprose again, and the ball sped. It

proved to be the last bowled that day. For once more that terrible

upward break ended with a thud and a yell, echoed from nine

panic-stricken men about me. The luckless batsman fled with as gory a

visage as his companion had done, and none would take his place, though

the grocer charmed and stormed never so wisely. Windlecombe had won by

six.

Later by an hour the victorious eleven gathered in the parlour of the

Three Thatchers Inn, old Stallwood grimly smiling in their midst. Tom

Clemmer shook his fist at him, delight in his eyes.

‘But ’twarn’t crickut, Stall’ard!’ he said reproachfully.

‘Noa,’ returned the old man, ‘not crickut, leastways not all on’t. That

there sing-chin-summat or other—Red Hot Ball, I calls un—that wur a trick

as I larned in Chaney.’