three balls, which realized eight runs, by Baynes. Baynes, though
abstaining from runs himself, helped Pringle to add three to the score,
all in singles, and was then yorked by the slow man, who meanly and
treacherously sent down, without the slightest warning, a very fast one
on the leg stump. Then Reece came in for the last wicket, and the rot
stopped. Reece always went in last for the School, and the School in
consequence always felt that there were possibilities to the very end
of the innings.
The lot of a last-wicket man is somewhat trying. As at any moment his
best innings may be nipped in the bud by the other man getting out, he
generally feels that it is hardly worth while to play himself in before
endeavouring to make runs. He therefore tries to score off every ball,
and thinks himself lucky if he gets half a dozen. Reece, however, took
life more seriously. He had made quite an art of last-wicket batting.
Once, against the Butterflies, he had run up sixty not out, and there
was always the chance that he would do the same again. Today, with
Pringle at the other end, he looked forward to a pleasant hour or two
at the wicket.
No bowler ever looks on the last man quite in the same light as he does
the other ten. He underrates him instinctively. The M.C.C. fast bowler
was a man with an idea. His idea was that he could bowl a slow ball of
diabolical ingenuity. As a rule, public feeling was against his trying
the experiment. His captains were in the habit of enquiring rudely if
he thought he was playing marbles. This was exactly what the M.C.C.
captain asked on the present occasion, when the head ball sailed
ponderously through the air, and was promptly hit by Reece into the
Pavilion. The bowler grinned, and resumed his ordinary pace.
But everything came alike to Reece. Pringle, too, continued his career
of triumph. Gradually the score rose from a hundred and seventy to two
hundred. Pringle cut and drove in all directions, with the air of a
prince of the blood royal distributing largesse. The second century
went up to the accompaniment of cheers.
Then the slow bowler reaped his reward, for Pringle, after putting his
first two balls over the screen, was caught on the boundary off the
third. He had contributed eighty-one to a total of two hundred and
thirteen.
So far Gethryn's absence had not been noticed. But when the umpires had
gone out, and the School were getting ready to take the field,
inquiries were made.
'You might begin at the top end, Gosling,' said Norris.
'Right,' said Samuel. 'Who's going on at the other?'
'Baynes. Hullo, where's Gethryn?'
'Isn't he here? Perhaps he's in the Pavi--'
'Any of you chaps seen Gethryn?'
'He isn't in the Pav.,' said Baker. 'I've just come out of the First
room myself, and he wasn't there. Shouldn't wonder if he's over at
Leicester's.'
'Dash the man,' said Norris, 'he might have known we'd be going out to
field soon. Anyhow, we can't wait for him. We shall have to field a
sub. till he turns up.'
'Lorimer's in the Pav., changed,' said Pringle.
'All right. He'll do.'
And, reinforced by the gratified Lorimer, the team went on its way.
In the beginning the fortunes of the School prospered. Gosling opened,
as was his custom, at a tremendous pace, and seemed to trouble the
first few batsmen considerably. A worried-looking little person who had
fielded with immense zeal during the School innings at cover-point took
the first ball. It was very fast, and hit him just under the knee-cap.
The pain, in spite of the pad, appeared to be acute. The little man
danced vigorously for some time, and then, with much diffidence,
prepared himself for the second instalment.
Now, when on the cricket field, the truculent Samuel was totally
deficient in all the finer feelings, such as pity and charity. He could
see that the batsman was in pain, and yet his second ball was faster
than the first. It came in quickly from the off. The little batsman
went forward in a hesitating, half-hearted manner, and played a clear
two inches inside the ball. The off-stump shot out of the ground.
'Bowled, Sammy,' said Norris from his place in the slips.
The next man was a clergyman, a large man who suggested possibilities
in the way of hitting. But Gosling was irresistible. For three balls
the priest survived. But the last of the over, a fast yorker on the leg
stump, was too much for him, and he retired.
Two for none. The critic in the deck chair felt that the match was as
good as over.
But this idyllic state of things was not to last. The newcomer, a tall
man with a light moustache, which he felt carefully after every ball,
soon settled down. He proved to be a conversationalist. Until he had
opened his account, which he did with a strong drive to the ropes, he
was silent. When, however, he had seen the ball safely to the boundary,
he turned to Reece and began.
'Rather a nice one, that. Eh, what? Yes. Got it just on the right
place, you know. Not a bad bat this, is it? What? Yes. One of Slogbury
and Whangham's Sussex Spankers, don't you know. Chose it myself. Had it
in pickle all the winter. Yes.'
'Play, sir,' from the umpire.
'Eh, what? Oh, right. Yes, good make these Sussex--_Spankers_. Oh,
well fielded.'
At the word spankers he had effected another drive, but Marriott at
mid-off had stopped it prettily.
Soon it began to occur to Norris that it would be advisable to have a
change of bowling. Gosling was getting tired, and Baynes apparently
offered no difficulties to the batsman on the perfect wicket, the
conversational man in particular being very severe upon him. It was at
such a crisis that the Bishop should have come in. He was Gosling's
understudy. But where was he? The innings had been in progress over
half an hour now, and still there were no signs of him. A man, thought
Norris, who could cut off during the M.C.C. match (of all matches!),
probably on some rotten business of his own, was beyond the pale, and
must, on reappearance, be fallen upon and rent. He--here something
small and red whizzed at his face. He put up his hands to protect
himself. The ball struck them and bounded out again. When a fast bowler
is bowling a slip he should not indulge in absent-mindedness. The
conversational man had received his first life, and, as he was careful
to explain to Reece, it was a curious thing, but whenever he was let
off early in his innings he always made fifty, and as a rule a century.
Gosling's analysis was spoilt, and the match in all probability lost.
And Norris put it all down to Gethryn. If he had been there, this would
not have happened.
'Sorry, Gosling,' he said.
'All right,' said Gosling, though thinking quite the reverse. And he
walked back to bowl his next ball, conjuring up a beautiful vision in
his mind. J. Douglas and Braund were fielding slip to him in the
vision, while in the background Norris appeared, in a cauldron of
boiling oil.
'Tut, tut,' said Baker facetiously to the raging captain.
Baker's was essentially a flippant mind. Not even a moment of solemn
agony, such as this, was sacred to him.
Norris was icy and severe.
'If you want to rot about, Baker,' he said, 'perhaps you'd better go
and play stump-cricket with the juniors.'
'Well,' retorted Baker, with great politeness, 'I suppose seeing you
miss a gaper like that right into your hands made me think I was
playing stump-cricket with the juniors.'
At this point the conversation ceased, Baker suddenly remembering that
he had not yet received his First Eleven colours, and that it would
therefore be rash to goad the captain too freely, while Norris, for his
part, recalled the fact that Baker had promised to do some Latin verse
for him that evening, and might, if crushed with some scathing
repartee, refuse to go through with that contract. So there was silence
in the slips.
The partnership was broken at last by a lucky accident. The
conversationalist called his partner for a short run, and when that
unfortunate gentleman had sprinted some twenty yards, reconsidered the
matter and sent him back. Reece had the bails off before the victim had
completed a third of the return journey.
For some time after this matters began to favour the School again. With
the score at a hundred and five, three men left in two overs, one
bowled by Gosling, the others caught at point and in the deep off
Jennings, who had deposed Baynes. Six wickets were now down, and the
enemy still over a hundred behind.
But the M.C.C. in its school matches has this peculiarity. However
badly it may seem to stand, there is always something up its sleeve. In
this case it was a professional, a man indecently devoid of anything in
the shape of nerves. He played the bowling with a stolid confidence,
amounting almost to contempt, which struck a chill to the hearts of the
School bowlers. It did worse. It induced them to bowl with the sole
object of getting the conversationalist at the batting end, thus
enabling the professional to pile up an unassuming but rapidly
increasing score by means of threes and singles.
As for the conversationalist, he had made thirty or more, and wanted
all the bowling he could get.
'It's a very curious thing,' he said to Reece, as he faced Gosling,
after his partner had scored a three off the first ball of the over,
'but some fellows simply detest fast bowling. Now I--' He never finished
the sentence. When he spoke again it was to begin a new one.
'How on earth did that happen?' he asked.
'I think it bowled you,' said Reece stolidly, picking up the two stumps
which had been uprooted by Gosling's express.
'Yes. But how? Dash it! What? I can't underst--. Most curious thing I
ever--dash it all, you know.'
He drifted off in the direction of the Pavilion, stopping on the way to
ask short leg his opinion of the matter.
'Bowled, Sammy,' said Reece, putting on the bails.
'Well bowled, Gosling,' growled Norris from the slips.
'Sammy the marvel, by Jove,' said Marriott. 'Switch it on, Samuel, more
and more.'
'I wish Norris would give me a rest. Where on earth is that man
Gethryn?'
'Rum, isn't it? There's going to be something of a row about it. Norris
seems to be getting rather shirty. Hullo! here comes the Deathless
Author.'
The author referred to was the new batsman, a distinguished novelist,
who played a good deal for the M.C.C. He broke his journey to the
wicket to speak to the conversationalist, who was still engaged with
short leg.
'Bates, old man,' he said, 'if you're going to the Pavilion you might
wait for me. I shall be out in an hour or two.'
Upon which Bates, awaking suddenly to the position of affairs, went on
his way.
With the arrival of the Deathless Author an unwelcome change came over
the game. His cricket style resembled his literary style. Both were
straightforward and vigorous. The first two balls he received from
Gosling he drove hard past cover point to the ropes. Gosling, who had
been bowling unchanged since the innings began, was naturally feeling a
little tired. He was losing his length, and bowling more slowly than
was his wont. Norris now gave him a rest for a few overs, Bruce going
on with rather innocuous medium left-hand bowling. The professional
continued to jog along slowly. The novelist hit. Everything seemed to
come alike to him. Gosling resumed, but without effect, while at the
other end bowler after bowler was tried. From a hundred and ten the
score rose and rose, and still the two remained together. A hundred and
ninety went up, and Norris in despair threw the ball to Marriott.
'Here you are, Marriott,' he said, 'I'm afraid we shall have to try
you.'
'That's what I call really nicely expressed,' said Marriott to the
umpire. 'Yes, over the wicket.'
Marriott was a slow, 'House-match' sort of bowler. That is to say, in a
House match he was quite likely to get wickets, but in a First Eleven
match such an event was highly improbable. His bowling looked very
subtle, and if the ball was allowed to touch the ground it occasionally
broke quite a remarkable distance.
The forlorn hope succeeded. The professional for the first time in his
innings took a risk. He slashed at a very mild ball almost a wide on
the off side. The ball touched the corner of the bat, and soared up in
the direction of cover-point, where Pringle held it comfortably.
'There you are,' said Marriott, 'when you put a really scientific
bowler on you're bound to get a wicket. Why on earth didn't I go on
before, Norris?'
'You wait,' said Norris, 'there are five more balls of the over to
come.'
'Bad job for the batsman,' said Marriott.
There had been time for a run before the ball reached Pringle, so that
the novelist was now at the batting end. Marriott's next ball was not
unlike his first, but it was straighter, and consequently easier to get
at. The novelist hit it into the road. When it had been brought back he
hit it into the road again. Marriott suggested that he had better have
a man there.
The fourth ball of the over was too wide to hit with any comfort, and
the batsman let it alone. The fifth went for four to square leg, almost
killing the umpire on its way, and the sixth soared in the old familiar
manner into the road again. Marriott's over had yielded exactly
twenty-two runs. Four to win and two wickets to fall.
'I'll never read another of that man's books as long as I live,' said
Marriott to Gosling, giving him the ball. 'You're our only hope, Sammy.
Do go in and win.'
The new batsman had the bowling. He snicked his first ball for a
single, bringing the novelist to the fore again, and Samuel Wilberforce
Gosling vowed a vow that he would dismiss that distinguished novelist.
But the best intentions go for nothing when one's arm is feeling like
lead. Of all the miserable balls sent down that afternoon that one of
Gosling's was the worst. It was worse than anything of Marriott's. It
flew sluggishly down the pitch well outside the leg stump. The novelist
watched it come, and his eye gleamed. It was about to bounce for the
second time when, with a pleased smile, the batsman stepped out. There
was a loud, musical report, the note of a bat when it strikes the ball
fairly on the driving spot.
The man of letters shaded his eyes with his hand, and watched the ball
diminish in the distance.
'I rather think,' said he cheerfully, as a crash of glass told of its
arrival at the Pavilion, 'that that does it.'
He was perfectly right. It did.
[9]
THE BISHOP FINISHES HIS RIDE
Gethryn had started on his ride handicapped by two things. He did not
know his way after the first two miles, and the hedges at the roadside
had just been clipped, leaving the roads covered with small thorns.
It was the former of these circumstances that first made itself
apparent. For two miles the road ran straight, but after that it was
unexplored country. The Bishop, being in both cricket and football
teams, had few opportunities for cycling. He always brought his machine
to School, but he very seldom used it.
At the beginning of the unexplored country, an irresponsible person
recommended him to go straight on. He couldn't miss the road, said he.
It was straight all the way. Gethryn thanked him, rode on, and having
gone a mile came upon three roads, each of which might quite well have
been considered a continuation of the road on which he was already. One
curved gently off to the right, the other two equally gently to the
left. He dismounted and the feelings of gratitude which he had borne
towards his informant for his lucid directions vanished suddenly. He
gazed searchingly at the three roads, but to single out one of them as
straighter than the other two was a task that baffled him completely. A
sign-post informed him of three things. By following road one he might
get to Brindleham, and ultimately, if he persevered, to Corden. Road
number two would lead him to Old Inns, whatever they might be, with the
further inducement of Little Benbury, while if he cast in his lot with
road three he might hope sooner or later to arrive at Much
Middlefold-on-the-Hill, and Lesser Middlefold-in-the-Vale. But on the
subject of Anfield and Anfield Junction the board was silent.
Two courses lay open to him. Should he select a route at random, or
wait for somebody to come and direct him? He waited. He went on
waiting. He waited a considerable time, and at last, just as he was
about to trust to luck, and make for Much Middlefold-on-the-Hill, a
figure loomed in sight, a slow-moving man, who strolled down the Old
Inns road at a pace which seemed to argue that he had plenty of time on
his hands.
'I say, can you tell me the way to Anfield, please?' said the Bishop as
he came up.
The man stopped, apparently rooted to the spot. He surveyed the Bishop
with a glassy but determined stare from head to foot. Then he looked
earnestly at the bicycle, and finally, in perfect silence, began to
inspect the Bishop again.
'Eh?' he said at length.
'Can you tell me the way to Anfield?'
'Anfield?'
'Yes. How do I get there?'
The man perpended, and when he replied did so after the style of the
late and great Ollendorf.
'Old Inns,' he said dreamily, waving a hand down the road by which he
had come, 'be over there.'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said Gethryn.
'Was born at Old Inns, I was,' continued the man, warming to his
subject. 'Lived there fifty-five years, I have. Yeou go straight down
the road an' yeou cam t' Old Inns. Yes, that be the way t' Old Inns.'
Gethryn nobly refrained from rending the speaker limb from limb.
'I don't want to know the way to Old Inns,' he said desperately. 'Where
I want to get is Anfield. Anfield, you know. Which way do I go?'
'Anfield?' said the man. Then a brilliant flash of intelligence
illumined his countenance. 'Whoy, Anfield be same road as Old Inns.
Yeou go straight down the road, an'--'
'Thanks very much,' said Gethryn, and without waiting for further
revelations shot off in the direction indicated. A quarter of a mile
farther he looked over his shoulder. The man was still there, gazing
after him in a kind of trance.
The Bishop passed through Old Inns with some way on his machine. He had
much lost time to make up. A signpost bearing the legend 'Anfield four
miles' told him that he was nearing his destination. The notice had
changed to three miles and again to two, when suddenly he felt that
jarring sensation which every cyclist knows. His back tyre was
punctured. It was impossible to ride on. He got off and walked. He was
still in his cricket clothes, and the fact that he had on spiked boots
did not make walking any the easier. His progress was not rapid.
Half an hour before his one wish had been to catch sight of a
fellow-being. Now, when he would have preferred to have avoided his
species, men seemed to spring up from nowhere, and every man of them
had a remark to make or a question to ask about the punctured tyre.
Reserve is not the leading characteristic of the average yokel.
Gethryn, however, refused to be drawn into conversation on the subject.
At last one, more determined than the rest, brought him to bay.
'Hoy, mister, stop,' called a voice. Gethryn turned. A man was running
up the road towards him.
He arrived panting.
'What's up?' said the Bishop.
'You've got a puncture,' said the man, pointing an accusing finger at
the flattened tyre.
It was not worth while killing the brute. Probably he was acting from
the best motives.
'No,' said Gethryn wearily, 'it isn't a puncture. I always let the air
out when I'm riding. It looks so much better, don't you think so? Why
did they let you out? Good-bye.'
And feeling a little more comfortable after this outburst, he wheeled
his bicycle on into Anfield High Street.
Minds in the village of Anfield worked with extraordinary rapidity. The
first person of whom he asked the way to the Junction answered the
riddle almost without thinking. He left his machine out in the road and
went on to the platform. The first thing that caught his eye was the
station clock with its hands pointing to five past four. And when he
realized that, his uncle's train having left a clear half hour before,
his labours had all been for nothing, the full bitterness of life came
home to him.
He was turning away from the station when he stopped. Something else
had caught his eye. On a bench at the extreme end of the platform sat a
youth. And a further scrutiny convinced the Bishop of the fact that the
youth was none other than Master Reginald Farnie, late of Beckford, and
shortly, or he would know the reason why, to be once more of Beckford.
Other people besides himself, it appeared, could miss trains.
Farnie was reading one of those halfpenny weeklies which--with a nerve
which is the only creditable thing about them--call themselves comic.
He did not see the Bishop until a shadow falling across his paper
caused him to look up.
It was not often that he found himself unequal to a situation. Monk in
a recent conversation had taken him aback somewhat, but his feelings on
that occasion were not to be compared with what he felt on seeing the
one person whom he least desired to meet standing at his side. His jaw
dropped limply, _Comic Blitherings_ fluttered to the ground.
The Bishop was the first to speak. Indeed, if he had waited for Farnie
to break the silence, he would have waited long.
'Get up,' he said. Farnie got up.
'Come on.' Farnie came.
'Go and get your machine,' said Gethryn. 'Hurry up. And now you will
jolly well come back to Beckford, you little beast.'
But before that could be done there was Gethryn's back wheel to be
mended. This took time. It was nearly half past four before they
started.
'Oh,' said Gethryn, as they were about to mount, 'there's that money. I
was forgetting. Out with it.'
Ten pounds had been the sum Farnie had taken from the study. Six was
all he was able to restore. Gethryn enquired after the deficit.
'I gave it to Monk,' said Farnie.
To Gethryn, in his present frame of mind, the mere mention of Monk was
sufficient to uncork the vials of his wrath.
'What the blazes did you do that for? What's Monk got to do with it?'
'He said he'd get me sacked if I didn't pay him,' whined Farnie.
This was not strictly true. Monk had not said. He had hinted. And he
had hinted at flogging, not expulsion.
'Why?' pursued the Bishop. 'What had you and Monk been up to?'
Farnie, using his out-of-bounds adventures as a foundation, worked up a
highly artistic narrative of doings, which, if they had actually been
performed, would certainly have entailed expulsion. He had judged
Gethryn's character correctly. If the matter had been simply a case for
a flogging, the Bishop would have stood aside and let the thing go on.
Against the extreme penalty of School law he felt bound as a matter of
family duty to shield his relative. And he saw a bad time coming for
himself in the very near future. Either he must expose Farnie, which he
had resolved not to do, or he must refuse to explain his absence from
the M.C.C. match, for by now there was not the smallest chance of his
being able to get back in time for the visitors' innings. As he rode on
he tried to imagine what would happen in consequence of that desertion,
and he could not do it. His crime was, so far as he knew, absolutely
without precedent in the School history.
As they passed the cricket field he saw that it was empty. Stumps were
usually drawn early in the M.C.C. match if the issue of the game was
out of doubt, as the Marylebone men had trains to catch. Evidently this
had happened today. It might mean that the School had won easily--they
had looked like making a big score when he had left the ground--in
which case public opinion would be more lenient towards him. After a
victory a school feels that all's well that ends well. But it might, on
the other hand, mean quite the reverse.
He put his machine up, and hurried to the study. Several boys, as he
passed them, looked curiously at him, but none spoke to him.
Marriott was in the study, reading a book. He was still in flannels,
and looked as if he had begun to change but had thought better of it.
As was actually the case.
'Hullo,' he cried, as Gethryn appeared. 'Where the dickens have you
been all the afternoon? What on earth did you go off like that for?'
'I'm sorry, old chap,' said the Bishop, 'I can't tell you. I shan't be
able to tell anyone.'