It was the day of the Templeton match, and all Willoughby had once more
turned out into the Big to watch the achievements of its heroes.
Yet it was not so much the cricket that fellows crowded out to see. Of
course, the contest between the second-eleven and Templeton was
moderately interesting. But it was not of the first importance, and
Willoughby might have survived had it been deprived of the pleasure of
witnessing it.
But the pleasure of witnessing old Wyndham umpiring for the old school
in the very Big where his own mighty victories had been achieved, was
quite another matter; and in honour of this event it was that Willoughby
turned out in a body and watched the Templeton match.
The old captain had not much altered in the few weeks since he had left
Willoughby. His whiskers had not had time to grow, and he even wore the
same flannel jacket he had on at the athletic sports in May. But in the
eyes of the boys he might have been no longer a man, but a demi-god,
with such awe and reverence did they behold him.
He had lately scored one hundred and five for the Colts of his county,
and had even been selected to play in the eleven against M.C.C. next
week. What he might not achieve when he went up to Oxford in the autumn
no one could say, but that he would be stroke of the eight and captain
of the fifteen, and carry off all the events in the next University
athletics, no one at the school ventured to doubt for a moment.
The Templeton boys hardly knew what to make of all this demonstration in
favour of their opponents' umpire, and it added considerably to their
nervousness to hear loud cries of "Well umpired, sir!" when any one was
given out.
Parson and Telson, having taken the precaution to send Bosher and
Lawkins early in the day to keep seats for them on the round bench under
the schoolhouse elms, viewed the match luxuriously, and not a little to
the envy of other juniors, who had to stand or sit on the ground where
they could.
"Boshy play, you know," says Telson, helping himself to monkey-nuts out
of Parson's hospitable pocket; "but it's stunning to see the way old
Wynd. gives middle. Any one else would take double the time over it."
"Right you are! And he's awfully fair too. See the neat way he gave
Forbes out leg before, just now!"
"There's another two for Tedbury. We'll cheer him next time. Hullo,
Bosher, old man! you needn't be coming here. There's no room; we're
full up."
"You might let us sit down a bit," says Bosher; "I kept the seat from
half-past ten to twelve for you."
"Jolly muff not to sit down, then, when you had the chance. Jolly gross
conduct of the evil Bosher, eh, Telson?"
"Rather! He's small in the world, but he'd better get out of the light,
my boy, or he'll catch it!"
Bosher subsides at this point, and the two friends resume their divided
interest in the match, and old Wyndham, and the monkey-nuts.
Presently two familiar forms saunter past, arm-in-arm.
"There go Riddell and Bloomfield," says Parson. "Awfully chummy they've
got, haven't they? Different from what it used to be!"
"So it is," says Parson. "Not nearly as much chance of a lark. But
perhaps it's no harm; it keeps those Welcher kids quiet."
"More than it's doing just now! Look at the way young Cusack is
bellowing over there! He's as mad on this match as if he was in the
eleven."
"So he expects to be, some day. But they're not going to have it all
their own way in Welch's again. Our club's going ahead like blazes now,
and we've challenged them for a return match the day before break-up."
"There's Tedbury out," says Telson. "Twenty runs he's made--not a bad
score. We'd better cheer him, I say."
And the two grandees suit the action to the word, and rejoice the heart
of Tedbury as he retires to the tent, by their lusty applause.
The Willoughbites do not do badly as a whole. A few of them, either
through incompetence or terror at the presence of old Wyndham, fail to
break their duck's-eggs, but the others among them put together the
respectable score of one hundred and five--the identical figures, by the
way, which Wyndham scored off his own bat the other day in the Colts'
match of his county.
During the interval there is a general incursion of spectators into the
ground, and a stampede by the more enthusiastic to the tent where the
great umpire is known to be "on show" for a short time.
Amongst others, Parson and Telson incautiously quit their seats, which
are promptly "bagged" by Bosher and Lawkins, who have had their eyes on
them all the morning, and are determined now, at any rate, to take the
reward of their patience, and hold them against all comers.
The crowd in the tent has not a long time wherein to feast its eyes on
the old captain, for Willoughby goes out to field almost at once, and
Templeton's innings begins. Whatever may have been the case with the
school, Templeton seems quite unable to perform under the eyes of the
great "M.C.C." man, and wicket after wicket falls in rapid succession,
until with the miserable total of fifty-one they finally retire for this
innings.
"A follow-on," says Game, who from near the tent is patronisingly
looking on, in company with Ashley, Tipper, and Wibberly. "I suppose
they ought to do them in one innings now?"
"Ought to try," says Tipper. "Some of these kids play fairly well."
"They get well coached, that's what it is. What with Bloomfield, and
Fairbairn, and Mr Parrett, they've been drilled, and no mistake."
"Let's see," says Wibberly, "there are five Parretts in the eleven,
aren't there."
Ashley laughs.
"I don't fancy any one thought of counting," says he. "Perhaps we'd
better not, or it may turn out as bad for us as in the Rockshire match."
"After all," says Tipper, "I'm just as glad those rows are over. We're
none the worse off now."
"No, I suppose not," says Game, a little doubtfully; "and Bloomfield and
he are such friends. It's just as well to keep in with the captain."
"Not very difficult either," says Ashley.
"He's friendly enough, and doesn't seem to have any grudge. He told me
he hoped I'd be on the monitors' list again next term."
"Ah, I'm having a shot at that too," says Game. "Ah, it is a follow-on,
then. There go our fellows to field again."
Just as the second innings of Templeton is half-over, a melancholy
figure crosses the Big from the school and makes its way to the tent.
It is young Wyndham, whose half-hour's liberty has come round at last,
and who now has come to witness the achievements of that second-eleven
in which, alas! he may not play.
However, he does not waste his time in growling, but cheers vociferously
every piece of good fielding, and his voice becomes an inspiriting
feature of the innings. But you can see, by the way he is constantly
looking at his watch, that his liberty is limited, and that soon, like
Cinderella at midnight, he must vanish once more into obscurity. He
knows to half a second how long it takes him to run from the tent to the
schoolhouse, and at one minute and twelve seconds to six, whatever he is
doing, he will bolt like mad to his quarters.
Before, however, his time is half-over the captain joins him.
"Well, old man," says the latter, "I wish you were playing. It's hard
lines for you."
"Not a bit--(Well thrown up, Gamble!)--not a bit hard lines," says the
boy. "Lucky for me I'm here at all to see the match."
"Well, it'll be all right next term," says the captain. "I say, it
would have done you good to see the cheer your brother got when he
turned up."
"Oh, I heard it," said the boy. "Fairbairn lets me stick in his study--
that window there, that looks right through the gap in the elms, so I
can see most of what's going on--(Now then, sir, pick it up there;
fielded indeed!)"
The match is nearly over, and it looks as if Wyndham will be able to see
the end of it. Nine wickets are down for forty-nine, and five runs must
yet be scored to save Templeton from a single-innings defeat.
The last man begins ominously, for he makes two off his first ball.
Willoughby presses round, breathless, to watch the next. It whizzes
over the wicket, but does no harm. The next ball--one of Forbes's
shooters--strikes on the batsman's pad.
"How's that, umpire?" yells every one.
"Not out!" says old Wyndham.
The next ball comes--but before it has left the bowler's hand young
Wyndham has begun to run. Loud shouts and laughter follow his headlong
progress.
"Well run, sir; put it on!" scream Parson and Telson.
"Stop thief!" howl Bosher and his friends.
"He's gaining, there! Pull yourself together!" cry Cusack and Pilbury.
Heedless of these familiar cheers--for lately this has been a daily
performance--Wyndham saves his honour at two seconds to six, the
identical moment when Forbes's last ball sends the Templeton bails
flying high over long-stop's head, and Willoughby is proclaimed winner
of the match by one innings and three runs.
A jovial party assembles an hour later for "high tea" in the captain's
study.
Fairbairn, Coates, Porter, and Crossfield are there, and Bloomfield and
Riddell, and the two Wyndhams, and assuredly a cheerier party never sat
down in Willoughby.
"I never expected to find you a Welcher," says old Wyndham to the
captain.
"No? A fellow's sure to find his level, you see, some day," replied
Riddell, laughing.
"Yes, but the thing is, Welch's is coming up to his level," says
Bloomfield, "instead of his going down to Welch's."
"I should say," says young Wyndham, blushing a little to hear his own
voice before this imposing assembly, "all Willoughby's coming up to his
level!"
"The young 'un's right, though he is a Limpet," says Crossfield. "I had
my doubts of old Riddell once, but I've more doubts about myself than
him now."
"You know, Wynd.," says Porter, "we're such a happy family, I shouldn't
wonder if I forget before long what house I belong to."
"I'll see you're reminded of that, my boy, before the house football
matches next term," says Fairbairn, laughing.
"Yes," says the old captain, "you'll be a poor show if you don't stick
up for your own house."
"Well, I don't know," says Porter, "we've had such a lot of sticking up
for our own houses this term, that I'm rather sick of it."
"Sticking up for ourselves, you mean," says Bloomfield, "that's where
one or two I could name went wrong."
"It seems to me," says Coates, "that sticking up for your house, and
sticking up for your school, and sticking up for yourself, are none of
them bad things."
"But," says old Wyndham, "unless you put them in the right order they
may do more harm than good."
"And what do you say the right order is?" asks Crossfield.
"Why, of course, Willoughby first, your house next, and yourself last."
"In other words," says the captain, "if you stick up for Willoughby you
can save yourself any trouble about the other two, for they are both
included in the good of the old school. At least, that's my notion!"
And with what better notion could we say good-bye to the Willoughby
Captains?