"This," he said, "is my favourite dream."
We were discussing our favourite dreams and prepared to listen.
"It is always," he went on, "the same--a cricket match: and the older
I get and less able to play cricket, the oftener I have it. It is a
real match, you must understand--first-class cricket, with thousands
of spectators and excitement; and it is played a very long way from my
home. That is an important point, as I will explain.
"I am merely one of the spectators. How long I have been watching I
cannot say, but the match is nearing the end and our side--the side
which has my sympathies--is nearly all out, but still needs a few runs
to win.
"What the side is I cannot clearly tell; all I know is that it is my
own county, I mean the county from which I come--say Kent--and the
match is at Old Trafford or Bramall Lane, against either Lancashire
or Yorkshire. But the important thing is that my side is a man short.
This man either has been taken ill or has had to go away because of a
bereavement. I am not clear as to that, but he is not there, anyway,
and unless a substitute can be found Kent will be at a disadvantage
and may lose."
We all got ready to say something.
"Oh, yes," he interpolated hurriedly, "I know, of course, that a
substitute may not bat for another at the end of a match, but this is
a dream, remember. That, perhaps, is what dreams are for--to provide
the limited and frustrated life of the daytime with the compensations
of limitless adventure and success."
"Order!" we cried.
"I beg pardon," he said, and returned to the vernacular.
"Very well; that is the scenario. Meanwhile the last two batsmen are
in--the Kent captain and another: that is to say, the last two, unless
another is forthcoming. And still there are six runs needed--five to
tie and six to win. The excitement is appalling. Everyone in the vast
concourse is tense. It is at this moment that the captain is bowled."
He stopped to wipe his forehead.
"What happens then?" he continued. "You would think the match was
over. So it would be on any ordinary ground and under ordinary
conditions, and particularly so if that umpire in the Sussex and
Somerset match the other day were officiating. But he is not, and
this is a dream. What happens is that the Kent captain, instead of
returning to the Pavilion, stops and talks to the other captain and
then he leaves the pitch and begins to walk towards the ring. When he
reaches the ring, some way from me, he begins to ask loudly, 'Is there
a Kent man here who can play at all and would help us out?' I can
hear him at first only faintly; then, as he gets closer, I hear more
clearly, 'Is there a Kent man here who can play at all and would help
us out?' My heart beats faster and faster and I am nearly suffocated
with suspense as he approaches, because I am a Kent man who can bat
a bit, and to play for my county has always been my desire, and I am
afraid that someone else will volunteer before the captain reaches me.
"You see now why the match has to be played so far away from home. If
it were Kent v. Middlesex at Lord's, for example, there would be loads
of Kentish men on the ground. But not so many up in the North.
"I always wonder why the captain does not begin in the Pavilion, but
he does not. He comes straight to the ring. Every moment he is drawing
nearer and no one has offered himself; and then at last he gets to me
and I stand up and say that Kent is my county and I can play a bit and
would like to help. He hastens to accept my offer, and I take his bat
and pads and gloves and go to the pitch, amid the cheers of the crowd.
"At the wicket I am received with hearty greetings by the rival
captain (this is a dream, remember), and I take middle. Then I look
round the field with perfect composure, as I have always seen the
best batsmen do, and have always wanted to do myself. I am the coolest
thing there.
"The situation is electrical. Six runs are needed and I am the last
man. The bowler against me is a demon and I am dead out of practice
and by no means fond of being hit on the body. He begins his run
towards the wicket, and the ball leaves his terrible long swinging
arm and comes towards me like a shell. I raise my bat, get it on the
half-volley right in the middle, hit it clean over the Pavilion for
six, and the match is won.
"That is my favourite dream."
"No wonder," we said.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mother_. "GEORGE WERE ALWAYS A TURRIBLE ONE TO CLEAN
'ISSELF; BUT THE ARMY DO SEEM TO 'AVE MADE UN WORSE."
_Father_. "AH! 'E GIVES WAY TO IT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Gambler's Wife (after reading result of the Derby)_.
"TAKE THE PARROT OUTSIDE, NELLIE. THE MASTER WILL BE HOME DIRECTLY
AFTER THE HORSE HE BACKED HAS COME IN LAST."]
* * * * *