"You can cut a steak off, or whatever you call it, and have it

broiled."

A meal was got ready, in the preparation of which every member of the

family took a hand. And a room was found for me, in which was a

blazing fire and traces of recent feminine occupation. I suspected

that Madge had yielded her own apartment as a shelter for the

stranger. By the time I had washed and changed my clothes, the

impromptu dinner, or supper, or whatever it was, was ready.

A curious repast it proved to be; composed of oddly contrasted dishes,

cooked--and sometimes uncooked--in original fashion. But hunger, that

piquant sauce, gave it a relish of its own. At first no one seemed

disposed to join me. By degrees, however, one after another found a

knife and fork, until all the eight were seated with me round the

board, eating, some of them, as if for dear life.

"The fact is," explained Rupert, "we're a rum lot. We hardly ever sit

down together. We don't have regular meals, but whenever anyone feels

peckish, he goes and gets what there is, and cooks it and eats it on

his own."

"It's not quite so bad as that," protested Madge, "though it's pretty

bad."

It did seem pretty bad, from the conventional point of view. From

their conversation, which was candour itself, I gleaned details which

threw light upon the peculiar position of affairs. It seemed that

their father had been dead some seven years. Their mother, who had

been always delicate, had allowed them to run nearly wild. Since she

died, some ten months back, they appeared to have run quite wild. The

house, with some six hundred acres of land, was theirs, and an income,

as to whose exact amount no one seemed quite clear.

"It's about eight hundred a year," said Rupert.

"I don't think it's quite so much," doubted Madge.

"I'm sure it's more," declared Bessie. "I believe we're being robbed."

I thought it extremely probable. They must have had peculiar parents.

Their father had left everything absolutely to their mother, and the

mother, in her turn, everything in trust to Madge, to be shared

equally among them all. Madge was an odd trustee. In her hands the

household had become a republic, in which every one did exactly as he

or she pleased. The result was chaos. No one wanted to go to school,

so no one went. The servants, finding themselves provided with eight

masters and mistresses, followed their example, and did as they liked.

Consequently, after sundry battles royal--lively episodes some of them

had evidently been--one after the other had been got rid of, until,

now, not one remained. Plainly the house must be going to rack and

ruin.

"But have you no relations?" I inquired.

Rupert answered.

"We've got some cousins, or uncles, or something of the kind in

Australia, where, so far as I'm concerned, I hope they'll stop."

When I was in my room, which I feared was Madge's, I told myself that

it was a queer establishment on which I had lighted. Yet I could not

honestly affirm that I was sorry I had come. I had lived such an

uneventful and such a solitary life, and had so often longed for

someone in whom to take an interest--who would not talk medicine

chest!--that to be plunged, all at once, into the centre of this troop

of boys and girls was an accident which, if only because of its

novelty, I found amusing. And then it was so odd that I should have

come across a Madge at last!

In the morning I was roused by noises, the cause of which, at first, I

could not understand. By degrees the explanation dawned on me; the

family was putting the house to rights. A somewhat noisy process it

seemed. Someone was singing, someone else was shouting, and two or

three others were engaged in a heated argument. In such loud tones was

it conducted that the gist of the matter travelled up to me.

"How do you think I'm going to get this fire to burn if you beastly

kids keep messing it about? It's no good banging at it with the poker

till it's alight."

The voice was unmistakably Rupert's. There was the sound of a scuffle,

cries of indignation, then a girlish voice pouring oil upon the

troubled waters. Presently there was a rattle and clatter, as if

someone had fallen from the top of the house to the bottom. I rushed

to my bedroom door.

"What on earth has happened?"

A small boy was outside--Peter. He explained,

"Oh, it's only the broom and dustpan gone tobogganing down the stairs.

It's Bessie's fault; she shouldn't leave them on the landing."

Bessie, appearing from a room opposite, disclaimed responsibility.

"I told you to look out where you were going, but you never do. I'd

only put them down for a second, while I went in to empty a jug of

water on to Jack, who won't get out of bed, and there are all the

boots for him to clean."

Injured tones came through the open portal.

"You wait, that's all! I'll soak your bed tonight--I'll drown it. I

don't want to clean your dirty boots, I'm not a shoe-black."

The breakfast was a failure. To begin with, it was inordinately late.

It seemed that a bath was not obtainable. I had been promised some hot

water, but as I waited and waited and none arrived, I proceeded to

break the ice in my jug--it was a bitterly cold morning, nice

"old-fashioned" weather--and to wash in the half-frozen contents. As I

am not accustomed to perform my ablutions in partially dissolved ice,

I fear that the process did not improve my temper.

It was past eleven when I got down, feeling not exactly in a

"Christmassy" frame of mind. Everything, and everyone, seemed at sixes

and sevens. It was after noon when breakfast appeared. The principal

dish consisted of eggs and bacon; but as the bacon was fried to

cinders, and the eggs all broken, it was not so popular as it might

have been, Madge was moved to melancholy.

"Something will have to be done! We can't go on like this! We must

have someone in to help us!"

Bessie was sarcastic.

"You might give Eliza another trial. She told you, if you didn't like

the way she burned the bacon, to burn it yourself, and as you've

followed her advice, she might be able to give you other useful hints

on similar lines."

Rupert indulged himself in the same vein.

"Then there's Eliza's brother. He threatened to knock your blooming

head off for saying Eliza was dishonest, just because she collared

everything she laid her hands on; he might turn out a useful sort of

creature to have about the place."

"It's all very well for you to laugh, but it's beyond a jest. I don't

know how we're going to cook the dinner."

"Can I be of any assistance?" I inquired. "First of all, what is there

to cook?"

It seemed that there were a good many things to cook. A turkey, a

goose, beef, plum pudding, mince pies, custard, sardines--it seemed

that Molly, the third girl, as she phrased it, could "live on

sardines," and esteemed no dinner a decent dinner at which they did

not appear--together with a list of etceteras half as long as my arm.

"One thing is clear; you can't cook all those things to-day."

"We can't cook anything."

This was Rupert. He was tilting his chair back, and had his face

turned towards the ceiling.

"Why not?"

"Because there's no coal."

"No coal?"

"There's about half a scuttle full of dust. If you can make it burn

you'll be clever."

What Rupert said was correct. Madge confessed, with crimson cheeks,

that she had meant, over and over again, to order some coal, but had

continually forgotten it, until finally Christmas Day had found them

with an empty cellar. There was plenty of wood, but it was not so dry

as it might have been, and anyhow, the grate was not constructed to

burn wood.

"You might try smoked beef," suggested Rupert. "When that wood goes at

all it smokes like one o'clock. If you hung the beef up over it, it

would be smoked enough for anyone by the time that it was done."

I began to rub my chin. Considering the breakfast we had had, from my

point of view the situation commenced, for the first time, to look

really grave, I wondered if it would not be possible to take the whole

eight somewhere where something really eatable could be got. But, when

I broached the subject, I learned that the thing could not be done.

The nearest hostelry was the "Boy and Blunderbuss," and it was certain

that nothing eatable could be had there, even if accommodation could

be found for us at all. Nothing in the shape of a possible house of

public entertainment was to be found closer than the market town,

eight miles off; it was unlikely that even there a Christmas dinner

for nine could be provided at a moment's notice. Evidently the only

thing to do was to make the best of things.

When the meeting broke up Madge came and said a few words to me alone.

"I really think you had better not stay."

"Does that mean that you had rather I went?"

"No; not exactly that."

"Then nearly that?"

"No; not a bit that. Only you must see for yourself how awfully

uncomfortable you'll be here, and what a horrid house this is."

"My dear Madge"--everybody called her Madge, so I did--"even if I

wanted to go, which I don't--and I would remind you that you

contracted to give me an old-fashioned Christmas--I don't see where

there is that I could go."

"Of course, there's that. I don't see, either. So I suppose you'll

have to stay. But I hope you won't think that I meant you to come to a

place like this--really, you know."

"I'm sorry; I had hoped you had."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that if I had thought that you were

coming, I would have seen that things were different."

"How different? I assure you that things as they are have a charm of

their own."

"That's what you say. You don't suppose that I'm so silly as not to

know you're laughing at me? But as I was the whole cause of your

coming, I hope you won't hate the others because of me."

She marched off, brushing back, with an impatient gesture, some

rebellious locks which had strayed upon her forehead.

That Christmas dinner was a success--positively. Of a kind--let that

be clearly understood. I am not inferring that it was a success from

the point of view of a "chef de cuisine." Not at all; how could it be?

Quite the other way. By dint of ransacking all the rooms, and emptying

all the scuttles, we collected a certain amount of coal, with which,

after adding a fair proportion of wood, we managed. Not brilliantly,

but after a fashion. I can only say, personally, I had not enjoyed

myself so much for years. I really felt as if I were young again; I am

not sure that I am not younger than I thought I was. I must look the

matter up. And, after all, even if one be, say forty, one need not be

absolutely an ancient. Madge herself said that I had been like a right

hand to her; she did not know what she would have done without me.

Looking back, I cannot but think that if we had attempted to prepare

fewer dishes, something might have been properly cooked. It was a

mistake to stuff the turkey with sage and onions; but as Bessie did

not discover that she had been manipulating the wrong bird until the

process of stuffing had been completed, it was felt that it might be

just as well to let it rest. Unfortunately, it turned out that some

thyme, parsley, mint, and other things had got mixed with the sage,

which gave the creature quite a peculiar flavour; but as it came to

table nearly raw, and as tough as hickory, it really did not matter.

My experience of that day teaches me that it is not easy to roast a

large goose on a small oil stove. The dropping fat caused the flame to

give out a strong smelling and most unpleasant smoke. Rupert, who had

charge of the operation, affirmed that it would be all right in the

end. But, by the time the thing was served, it was as black as my hat.

Rupert said that it was merely brown; but the brown was of a sooty

hue, and it reeked of paraffin. We had to have it deposited in the

ashbin. I daresay that the beef would not have been bad if someone had

occasionally turned it, and if the fire would have burned clear. As it

was, it was charred on one side and raw on the other, and smoked all

over. The way in which the odour and taste of smoke permeated

everything was amazing. The plum-pudding, came to the table in the

form of soup, and the mince pies were nauseous. Something had got into

the crust, or mincemeat, or something, which there, at any rate, was

out of place.

Luckily we came upon a tin of corned beef in a cupboard, and with the

aid of some bread and cheese, and other odds and ends, we made a sort

of picnic. Incredible though it may seem, I enjoyed it. If there was

anywhere a merrier party than we were, I should like to know where it

was to be found. It must have been a merry one. When I produced the

presents, in which a happy inspiration had urged me to invest, "the

enthusiasm reached a climax"--I believe that is the proper form of

words which I ought to use. As I watched the pleasure of those

youngsters, I felt as if I were myself a boy again.

* * * * *

That was my first introduction to "a lively family." They came up to

the description they had given of themselves. I speak from knowledge,

for they have been my acquaintances now some time. More than

acquaintances, friends; the dearest friends I have. At their request,

I took their affairs in hand, Madge informally passing her trusteeship

on to me. Things are very different with them now. The house is spick

and span. There is an excellent staff of servants. Hangar Dene is as

comfortable a home as there is in England. I have spent many a happy

Christmas under its hospitable roof since then.

The boys are out in the world, after passing with honour through

school and college. The girls are going out into the world also.

Bessie is actually married. Madge is married too. She is Mrs.

Christopher. That is the part of it all which I find is hardest to

understand--to have told myself my whole life long that the name of my

ideal woman would be Madge, and to have won that woman for my own at

last! That is greater fortune than falls to the lot of most men. I

thought that I was beyond that kind of thing; that I was too old. But

Madge seemed to think that I was young enough. And she thinks so

still.

And now there is a little Madge, who is big enough to play havoc with

the sheets of paper on which I have been scribbling, to whom, one day,

this tale will have to be told.

BY DEPUTY.

A REMINISCENCE OF TRAVEL.

CHAPTER I.

DESPOILED.

"It would seem, Greenall, as if you couldn't even shoot."

"It would seem like it, wouldn't it."

As I sauntered back to the hotel I was conscious of a slight feeling

of exacerbation. As if I had been "got at," "had." No man likes

to feel that he is a laughing-stock. I felt that I had been made a

laughing-stock just then; that, indeed, the process of manufacture had

been going on ever since I showed my face in Ahmednugger. The men I

had met were nice enough--in their way. Indeed, they were almost too

nice--also in their way. They appeared to have so little to do, in the

way of actual work, that they had made it the business of their lives

to perfect themselves in what are usually regarded, say, as

accomplishments. I was, and am, a plain civilian. I have worked for,

and earned, my little pile, such as it is, and until I set out upon

that pleasure tour in the East, it had never occurred to me that a man

could be regarded as an uneducated idiot if he could not, say, run

into double figures every time he took up his cue at billiards. A

suspicion that a man might be so regarded had been dawning upon me

ever since I arrived in India; but until I came to Ahmednugger I had

never quite realised how shockingly my education had been neglected on

exactly those points on which it ought to have been most carefully

attended to. The men of Ahmednugger were the most sporting individuals

I had ever yet encountered. Possibly I have not moved much among the

congregations of the sporting men, but I certainly have seen something

of men of business. These men of Ahmednugger were not only the keenest

sportsmen I had encountered, they were the keenest men of business,

too. And talk of the rigour of a competitive examination! They formed

themselves into an examining board, which very soon took the

"stiffening" out of me. They insisted on putting me through my paces

before I had been a week in the place. They examined me in every game

of cards which has been invented--and found me wanting in them all.

They examined me as a rider, as a driver, as a shootist, as a cueist,

in fact, in a range of subjects which I will not even venture to

enumerate. They refused me one solitary "pass." They "plucked" me in

them all. It did not add to my sense of satisfaction, that I found my

ignorance expensive.

The joke of the thing was, that before I came to India I had rather

fancied myself as an amateur sportsman. I flattered myself that I had

a decent seat in a saddle, whether across country or on the flat. I

thought that I made a tolerable fourth at whist; that I had some

notion, at any rate, of English billiards, and of a hazard off the

red. I certainly was under the impression that I could see with

tolerable accuracy along the barrel of a gun. But these vain delusions

were scattered, at once and for ever, by the men of Ahmednugger. My

all-round, purblind, insensate ignorance had been so convincingly

displayed, that, as I have said, I was the laughing-stock of all the

place.

My latest performance in the exhibition line had been in a match with

young Tebb, the youngest and the latest joined of the subalterns.

Young Tebb had lured me on to skittles. Mr. Tebb--who would have been

more correctly designated as "Master" Tebb--was an awkward

hobbledehoy, who, at any other place than Ahmednugger, I should have

looked down upon with the most supreme contempt. When he challenged me

to see who could smash most glass balls with a rifle bullet, he or I,

I rashly took his challenge up. I flattered myself that, at last, I

had a "soft thing" on. I had, myself, been found a "soft thing" so

many times, that I looked forward to a little change. I had no notion

(it was rather late at night when the challenge was thrown down, and

taken up) how difficult it really was to hit a glass ball with a rifle

bullet. I had never fired at a glass ball, nor had I ever seen anyone

else do so. But I conceived, that at any rate, young Tebb would find

at least as much difficulty in the thing as I should.

We were each to fire at fifty glass balls, which were to be sent up

into the air out of a trap. We were, of course, to fire at them while

they were in the air. Out of my fifty I smashed one. Out of his fifty

young Tebb smashed forty-nine. It was the most mirth-provoking

exhibition that was ever seen. Of course, the young scoundrel had been

doing nothing else but fire at glass balls his whole life long. It was

when I handed over the two hundred rupees which I had staked and lost,

that Mr. Tebb made his remark to the effect that "I couldn't even

shoot."

When I returned to the hotel, a man was standing in the doorway. He

addressed me as I came up the steps.

"It strikes me that you and I might shake hands, sir."

I asked him what he meant.

"I've made myself one kind of ass, and you've made yourself another

kind. We'd be a pair of beauties."

I did not like being addressed in this manner, especially by a

stranger, and especially by a stranger like this stranger. He was a

short, undersized man, with a vacuous expression of countenance. His

attire suggested seediness. Perceiving that I did not appreciate his

manner, he explained.

"No offence intended, sir. But I just now saw you playing pantaloon to

that youngster's clown, and I thought that he made the end of the

poker rather hot. As for me, I'm an ass all over. My name's Johns. I

came to this place to shear the sheep. There's been some shearing, but

it's the sheep that's done it. They've about sheared me. I happened to

have a trifle of money, so I came to these parts to see if I could do

a bit of bookmaking. I've done a bit. The gentlemen in these parts

have also done a bit. They've got hold of pretty well every blessed

mag I had."

I did not encourage Mr. Johns; quite the contrary. I had heard of him

before. The regimental races had recently been held; a bookmaker had

appeared upon the scene--Mr. Johns. Nearly every man in the place had

had bets with him, and to nearly every man in the place he had lost

his money. With a vengeance had the Philistine been spoiled.

CHAPTER II.

THE GAME.

Later in the day on which I had shot off that match with Mr. Tebb I

encountered Mr. Johns again. I was in the billiard-room of what was

called "the club." As regards membership, it was very free-and-easy

"club" indeed. A local celebrity was taking the floor. The room was

tolerably full. On one of the side seats was Mr. Johns.

The local celebrity was a Mr. Colson. Mr. Colson was stud groom to the

Rajah of Ahmednugger. He was also, and at the same time, one of the

most obnoxious persons I have, in the course of my career, had the

pleasure of meeting. There never was such a loud-voiced braggart. It

set one's nerves on edge to hear him. To listen to him, there was

nothing he could not do. The misfortune was, that some of the things

which he said he could do, he could do, and do well. I had found that

out to my cost, soon after my arrival in Ahmednugger. And, in

consequence, he had sat on me heavily ever since. He was a horrible

man.

That evening Mr. Colson was holding forth in his usual style, on the

subject of billiards. I should mention that, at the period of which I

am writing, Mr. John Roberts, the famous player, was on a tour in

India.

"I saw John Roberts at Calcutta," observed Mr. Colson, "and he saw me.

He also saw me play. When he saw me play, he said he doubted if he

could give me fifteen in a hundred. I told him that I should like to

see him do it. But he wouldn't take it on."

"Is that so?" asked Mr. Johns.

"That is so. I should like to see him give me ten in a hundred, either

John Roberts or any man now living."

"I should like to have a game with you, Mr. Colson."

"You would?" Mr. Colson looked at Mr. Johns. He looked him up and

down. Mr. Colson was large and florid. Mr. Johns was small and

underfed. Mr. Colson was, at least, expensively attired. About Mr.

John's costume there was certainly no suspicion of expense. "I don't

mind having you a hundred up, my lad. How many shall I give you?"

"I am no player, Mr. Colson, but I'd like to play you even, if only

for the sake of saying that I'd had the cheek to do it."

"You shall have that pleasure. And how much would you like to have

on--if only for the sake of saying that you had the cheek to have it

on?"

And Mr. Colson winked at the company in general.

"Well, Mr. Colson, you and the other gentlemen have won all my money;

but, I daresay, I might manage ten rupees."

"Put 'em up, my lad. Here's my ten. We'll play for the twenty."

They played for the twenty. And, to my satisfaction, and I believe to

the satisfaction of most of the others who were in the room, it was

Mr. Johns who won. I am bound to say that it seemed to me to be rather

a fluky win. Mr. Colson, whose disgust was amusing, had no doubt

whatever about the fluke.

"Never saw anything like it, never! The balls never broke for me, not

once! As for you; why, you did nothing else but fluke."

"Do you think so? I'll play you again double or quits, and I'll give

ten in the hundred, Mr. Colson."

Mr. Colson seemed amazed. In fact, I have no doubt he was amazed.

"I like your modesty! You'll give me ten! Here's my twenty. I'll take

you on."

Mr. Colson took him on. And, by way of fair exchange, Mr. Johns took

him off. That is to say, he took off the stakes and the game. He did

it rather neatly: just running in as Mr. Colson looked like winning.

Mr. Colson was adjectival.

"Never saw anything like it--never, in all my born days! Never saw

anything like my somethinged, somethinged, somethinged luck! And as

for your fluking--why, it just beats anything."

"Think so? I'll play you again, Mr. Colson, and again double or quits;

and this time I'll give you twenty in a hundred."

"You'll give me--you'll give me--twenty in a hundred? You will? Come

on! That'll be forty rupees a side--here's mine! Macbee, put me on

twenty, and we'll see what I can do."

We did see what he could do. We also saw that Mr. Johns seemed able to

do a little better. Once more he won the game. I am sure that we were

all enjoying ourselves very much--much more than we had had any reason

to anticipate. As for Mr. Colson, he went purple. He showered on Mr.

Johns a volley of that sort of language which I had found pretty

fashionable at Ahmednugger. Mr. Johns listened to him in silence,

while he pocketed the spoils. Then he had his say.

"You say I fluke? Why, my dear sir, you've no idea what a fluke is.

You've no idea of any sort about billiards. You can no more play

billiards than you can play the gentleman--you can't! You're the sort

of person whom it is just as well, once in a way, to expose. You're a

humbug, Mr. Colson, you're a humbug. As for John Roberts doubting if

he could give you fifteen in a hundred--why, he could give you

ninety-nine in a hundred, and beat you single-handed. I tell you what

I will do, Mr. Colson. I will play you five hundred up, for five

hundred rupees a side. I will give you four hundred start, and I will

lay two to one against you with any gentleman who cares to back you.

I don't think that's an unfair offer, Mr. Colson."

It struck me as, at any rate, a rash offer. Mr. Colson was not such a

tyro as Mr. Johns made out. He had made mincemeat of me--I do know

that. Yet the offer did not seem to be made in any spirit of

braggadocio. I fancy that the quiet, matter-of-fact manner in which it

was made impressed Mr. Colson more than he altogether cared to own. My

impression it that, if he had had his own way, he would have changed

the subject. But the odds offered him were such, and the challenge was

made in such a public manner, that he probably felt that, if he wished

to preserve a rag of reputation, now or never was the time to show the

stuff that he was made of. Anyhow, the offer was accepted, and the

terms of the match were definitely arranged before the parties left

the room.

CHAPTER III.

THE COALITION.

As I was retiring to rest, some one tapped at my bed-room door. In

response to my invitation to enter, Mr. Johns came in. Without any

preamble, he plunged at once into the purport of his presence in my

chamber at that hour of the night, or, rather, morning.

"I have come, Mr. Greenall, to ask you to lend me five hundred

rupees."

I turned. I looked at him. He met my glance without showing any signs

of discomposure.

"You have come to--what?"

He repeated his remark--quite as though it were a matter of course.

"To ask if you will lend me five hundred rupees."

"I don't know if you are in earnest, Mr. Johns. If you are, I would

remark, first, that I am not a money lender; and, second, that you are

a complete stranger to me."

"I want the money to stake in my match with Mr. Colson."

"Indeed. Is that so? Then that is an added reason why I should decline

to lend it to you. In my opinion, Mr. Johns, your chances of success

in that match are, to say the least of it, remote."

"Look here, Mr. Greenall, I'm the last man in the world to wish to

make myself offensive, but if we can understand each other I think

that you and I might do each other a good turn. I know all about how

you've been treated by the fellows here. I know how they've all been

taking pop shots at you. From what I hear they've made you look like

the biggest all-round muff that ever left his mammy. I daresay it's

cost you something, too."

I did not altogether appreciate this gentleman's free-and-easy style

of conversation. But to a certain extent I, so to speak, dissembled.

"I do not know what warrant you have, Mr. Johns, for your remarks;

and, in any case, I fail to see what business it is of yours."

"It's this way; if you like, you can be even with all the lot of

them--and more than even."

"How? By lending you five hundred rupees, and letting you have, as you

put it, a pop-shot at me with the rest of them. Thank you, Mr. Johns.

By the way, I fancy I have heard of some person or persons taking

pop-shots at you. I think I did hear that you came here to make a

fortune. Did you make it, Mr. Johns?"

"No, I didn't--hang 'em! I'm like you, I owe them one. And I mean to

pay them, with compound interest. And, if you like to say the word,

I'll pay them that little lot you owe them too. Look here, Mr.

Greenall, I don't mind owning that a keener lot of gentlemen than the

gentlemen here I don't think I ever had to do with. I won't say they

robbed me, but they certainly cut me up into very nice little pieces,

and they handed me round. I've seldom seen any thing of the kind which

was better done. But never mind--my turn's coming! I'm not fond of

bragging--quite the other way. If it wasn't that I was in a hole, I

wouldn't say a word. But it is the simple truth that, at all the

things at which these fellows think they're dabsters, I'm as far ahead

of them as they're ahead of you,--no offence intended. You can take my

word for it that I know what I'm talking about. It doesn't follow

because, just once in a way, they happened to muck up my book, that

I'm a flat. As for being able to give Colson four hundred out of five

hundred at billiards,--if I choose, and I shall choose, he's simply

bound to lose. I don't mean to say that I'm a John Roberts, because

I'm not. But I do know how to play, and that in a sense which Colson

hasn't even begun to understand. I've heard that Mr. Colson hasn't

behaved over well to you. I thought that you'd like to see him taken

down a peg or two."

I should. I should have liked to have seen more than one of them taken

down a peg or two, though I said nothing of that to Mr. Johns.

"How came you to match yourself, Mr. Johns, when you were aware that

you were not in possession of the required stakes?"

"I took it for granted that I should get the stakes from you."

Mr. Johns was frank, at any rate.

"From me? What claim did you suppose yourself to have on me?"

"No claim; but you see, sir, they've had me, and they've had you.

They've had both of us, in fact, pretty smartly. And I thought that

you might like to be even with some of them, by deputy."

By deputy. If it was workable, that was not a bad idea. I felt that I

should like to be even with some of them, beginning, say, with Mr.

Colson--how that man had squelched me beneath his elephantine foot!

the brute!--even, as it were, by deputy.

"What guarantee have I that you will not lose my money, as you already

have lost your own?"

"If we get up early, we shall have the billiard room all to ourselves.

If you like, I will give you some idea of what I can do upon a

billiard table."

We did get up early. We did have the billiard room all to ourselves.

And Mr. Johns did give me some idea of what he could do upon a

billiard table. For one thing, he got "on the spot," and he stopped

there. He continued to put the red down, without once missing, until

the marker appeared. When the marker did appear, we thought that

perhaps the proceedings had better cease. If I can trust my memory,

before the proceedings ceased, Mr. Johns had put the red down

something like two hundred times in succession. I thought that was

good enough, even for Mr. Colson. I agreed to advance the necessary

number of rupees.

The match came off. It was a beautiful match. The room was crowded to

overflowing. Mr. Johns had managed to back himself to a very fair

amount. Even I, in my small way, had managed to back him too. But

there was not so much readiness shown to support the local champion as

I had expected. They were keen, were the men of Ahmednugger. I fancy

that already they had begun to smell a rat. And not only so; they were

always willing to "make a bet." But on that particular occasion they

were almost equally willing to see Mr. Colson come to grief. I think

that, in those parts, Mr. Colson was not so popular as he deserved to

be. I verily believe that there were some who objected to him almost

as much as I did.

Poor Mr. Colson! He was painfully nervous. His nervousness prevented

his showing even his usual form. He had made fifteen, when Mr. Johns,

getting on the spot, stayed there. He ran out without once putting

down his cue. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in

Ahmednugger. When the marker notified the fact that Mr. Johns had

completed his fifth hundred, Mr. Colson was, for a moment, speechless.

He seemed unable to realize that the thing was so.

"It's a--something swindle!"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Colson--it's a what?"

Mr. Colson's tone was loud and threatening. Mr. Johns' tone was quiet,

and almost indifferent. Yet Mr. Colson did not seem to altogether like

it. He began to bluster. "You did not tell me that you were a

professional."

"No; I did not tell you that I was a professional."

"You didn't play the other night as you have played to-day. It looks

to me uncommonly like a put-up thing."

"It looks to you like a put-up thing, does it, Mr. Colson. Well, I'll

give you a chance of showing _your_ professional side. I believe you

can drive?"

"Drive!" Mr. Colson looked at the little man as if he would like to

eat him. "I'm the finest whip in India."

"Indeed! Is that so? Well, I'll drive you either four, or eight, in

hand, for a thousand rupees a side, although you are the finest whip

in India."

Mr. Colson snapped at his offer, before it was fairly out of his

mouth, and I felt that Mr. Johns was going a little too far. It was

one thing to match him at billiards, another thing to match him at

driving. There Mr. Colson was on his native heath. When I was alone

with Mr. Johns I told him so.

"I don't know if you are aware, Mr. Johns, that Mr. Colson really is a

first-rate whip. I am informed that it was his magnificent driving

which first attracted the Rajah's attention."

Mr. Johns did not exhibit much appearance of concern.

"I guess I'll fix him, anyhow. I haven't driven a stage over some of

the worst country in the western states of America for nothing. I'll

back myself to drive a coach-and-four along a wall just wide enough to

hold the wheels--and I'll take you as a passenger, if you like to

come."

"Thank you, Mr. Johns, my tastes do not incline that way."

"Don't you worry, Mr. Greenall. I mean to take on the whole lot of 'em,

one after the other, and show 'em a thing or two all round. These

gentlemen here fancy they know a little, but we'll be more than even

with them before we've done."

The driving match came off. I do not know how they manage similar

affairs in England. I have sometimes wondered. But I am under the

impression that they are not managed on the lines on which they

managed that driving match in Ahmednugger.

The way in which they managed it there was this. Mr. Colson was to

drive upon the Monday, Mr. Johns upon the Wednesday. Each was to drive

the same team--eight-in-hand. The horses, by-the-way, came out of the

Rajah's stables. The course was to be up and down the streets of

Ahmednugger, and then for a certain distance outside the city. The

judges occupied the front of the coach. I had a seat among the

insignificant people at the back. On the whole, I was content to sit

behind. The proceedings, in the streets of Ahmednugger, were

distinctly exciting--almost too exciting, I felt, for me. Those

streets were very narrow, and they were blocked with traffic, be it

understood. Mr. Colson and Mr. Johns, each with his eight horses, and

a coach load of passengers, went down those streets at full speed, as

if they had been fifty yards wide, and as if there had not been a soul

in sight. What damages were done, and what was the list of the killed

and wounded, I have never been informed. I never quite realized what

it meant to belong to a subject race, till then. It appeared to me

that, in the eyes of my companions, a native had, as a matter of

course, no rights at all. We drove over whole streets full of them, in

style. My heart was in my mouth most of the time. We dashed round

impossible corners, shaking native tenements to their foundations. But

we kept ourselves alive somehow. The peaceful pedestrians were slain.

I am no judge of coachmanship--of such coachmanship as that, at any

rate. Those who were judges, without a dissentient voice, awarded the

palm to Mr. Johns and, in consequence it was said, Mr. Colson entered

himself as a candidate for delirium tremens. He was a dreadful man.

It seemed as if Mr. Johns was prepared to match himself against the

men of Ahmednugger at exactly those things at which each man fancied

he was strongest. That is what he did do. He challenged any one to

meet him at driving, or at billiards. And, when his challenge--for

what seemed to me to be sufficient reasons--met with no response, he

challenged any one to ride him. That challenge was taken up. But he

beat all takers. He had a way with a horse which seemed little else

than magical. A horse would jump six feet for him, when, apparently,

it would not jump six inches for any other man in Ahmednugger. I don't

know how it was, but so it was. I know nothing of Mr. Johns, beyond

what I am writing. I never heard his story, nor how it was that a man

of genius--he was a man of genius--came to find himself a broken-down

small bookmaker in that little town "up country." Perhaps he was

another exemplification of the fact that only mediocrity succeeds.

I know that I was more than even with the men of Ahmednugger--by

deputy. The band played to them, as it had played to me. He made them

face the music, and there was not one of them who did not leave his

scalp upon the ground. My belt was adorned with trophies--by deputy.

When Mr. Johns had beaten the men of Ahmednugger--as they had beaten

me--at riding, and at driving, and at billiards, he took them on at

shooting. And, so to speak, he shot their heads off. He showed them

that, in the presence of this man, they were as nothing, and less than

nothing. He even challenged Mr. Tebb to smash glass balls. He fixed

the point from which they were to fire at an abnormal distance, and,

if I remember rightly, he beat Mr. Tebb by about a score. After he had

annihilated that presumptuous young vagabond, Mr. Johns informed me

that shooting at glass balls really was not shooting. I was quite

prepared to admit it. He said that it was only a trick. When you had

once mastered the trick, it was impossible to miss. Perhaps. I have

never fired at glass balls since then, so I have no reason to suppose

that I have mastered the trick. When I do again fire at glass balls I

am inclined to think that I shall not experience the slightest

difficulty in missing every one of them.

CHAPTER IV.

EVENS.

When Mr. Johns had beaten the men of Ahmednugger at almost everything

at which they could be beaten, he began to amuse himself by taking a

hand in various little games at cards. It was remarked that, to say

the least of it, his luck was wonderful. There was scarcely a man in

Ahmednugger who had not been compelled by Mr. Johns to take a lower

seat; to take a lower seat, too, just where he felt that his claim was

strongest to take the highest one. Naturally, here and there, a man

resented it. An even stronger spirit of resentment was evinced when

the men of Ahmednugger found that their money was going in search of

their vanished reputations. There were some disagreeable little

scenes. Then there was a royal row; it was at the club. Mr. Johns had

been carrying everything in front of him. Things were said; then other

things were said Then Mr. Johns laid down his cards; he faced the

company.

"Gentlemen, I wish to inform you that you are, individually and

collectively, a set of curs."

There were sounds which suggested neither the ways of pleasantness nor

the paths of peace.

"Softly. Postpone the fighting for one minute. I would remind you

that, when Mr. Greenall appeared in Ahmednugger, you all, with one

accord, took shots at him. You used him as if he had been a variety of

old Aunt Sally. When I made my appearance, you put your heads

together, and you bested me. You see, we were strangers, and you took

us in. Neither Mr. Greenall nor I quite liked this sort of thing, so

we put our heads together, and, in our turn, we've bested you. We've

used you as old Aunt Sallies. We've made you all sit up. We've made

you all sing small. Even at games of mingled chance and skill, I've

beaten you. Instead of taking your punishment like men, you begin to

whimper. Therefore, gentlemen, I repeat that you are, individually and

collectively, a set of curs."

Colonel Smith interposed so soon as Mr. Johns ceased speaking. I fancy

that the Colonel had only just entered the room.

"Mr. Johns, you very much forget yourself."

"On the contrary, Colonel, I am remembering myself. It is the

gentlemen you have the honour to command, who forget themselves.

Should there be any one present who resents the words which I have

used, I shall be happy to meet that person, either with the gloves, or

without them, or with any weapon he may choose--for the honour of

Ahmednugger."

There was silence--grim silence. Probably there was more than one

there who would have liked to have ground Mr. Johns between the upper

and the nether millstones. But, after all, they were gentlemen--in

their way. Bean stood up, the adjutant of the ----th. He was a big

fellow, head and shoulders taller than the audacious little

challenger. He went round to where Mr. Johns was sitting.

"Mr. Johns, you will either apologise for the words which you have

just now used, or take a thrashing."

"I will take a thrashing," said Mr. Johns.

He took it. What is more, he took it there and then. The meeting was

immediately adjourned; and in the moonlight, the little argument came

off. The proceedings were a trifle irregular; perhaps over here we

should deem them so. I am not prepared to say that any dignitaries

were actually present. Still there was a goodly gathering. The two men

"peeled." In a very short space of time the little man had knocked the

big man senseless. This is not a fairy tale. It is a simple record of

a sober matter-of-fact. It almost seems as if Mr. Johns was a lineal

descendant of the Admirable Crichton. Looking back, I really fancy

that he must have been.

When Mr. Bean's satisfaction had been signified in what, I believe, is

the usual manner, Mr. Johns addressed the lookers-on:

"Is there any other gentleman present who would like to thrash me--for

the honour of Ahmednugger?"

Someone came out of the shadow--someone who, in those parts, was a

very great man indeed.

"Mr. Johns, you will be so good as to leave Ahmednugger within

four-and-twenty-hours."

Mr. Johns looked the great man up and down. He seemed to be in no way

awed, even though he stood there in the moonlight without his shirt.

"I am at a loss, sir, to understand by what authority you address

yourself to me in such a manner. I am in no way answerable for my

movements to you. I have not broken the law. I have not even broken

the peace. As it happens, I do intend to leave Ahmednugger, and in

less than four-and-twenty hours. Not in deference to your orders, but

simply because I have had enough of Ahmednugger, having taught your

compatriots hereabouts what, it strikes me, was a much-needed

lesson--the next time they encounter strangers, except in the

scriptural sense--not to take them in."

The next day Mr. Johns did leave Ahmednugger. And I went too. He went

his way, I went mine. I have neither seen nor heard of him since. But,

as I continued on my journeyings, I felt that after all I had been

even, and more than even, with the men of Ahmednugger--by deputy.

MR. WHITING AND MARY ANN.

I did not mean to kiss her; it was a pure accident. Her face was close

to mine, or my face was close to hers, and then her lips came into

contact with my lips, or my lips came into contact with her lips--I

don't know which it was--and then at that moment her mother came into

the room, and she said, "Mr. Whiting, may I ask what is the meaning of

this?" I said it meant nothing--nothing! Absolutely nothing! Only I

found it difficult to explain, and when I did explain she would not

understand. Her manner was not at all the sort of thing I care for.

The result is that I am engaged to Mary Ann Snelling without being

conscious of having entertained any intention of the kind.

Not that I have a word to say against Mary Ann, except that I never

knew a girl with quite so many relations. To begin with she had six

brothers and five sisters, and she is the eldest of the batch, and

there's not one of the brothers whom I feel drawn to. Her father is a

most remarkable person, to say the least.

After they had arranged between them that I was engaged to Mary Ann (I

was really not allowed to have a voice in the matter) her father

remarked, with a pointed air, which I cannot but think, under the

circumstances, was unusual, that he thought it was about time that I

did come to the scratch, and that if I had kept on dilly-dallying much

longer he would have had a word to say to me of a kind. I do not know

what he meant, and would rather not attempt to imagine. But it is

quite plain to me that all the arrangements for my wedding are going

to be made by the Snellings.

I do not know when it is going to be, but it will be either next week

or the week after, certainly at the earliest possible moment, and I

shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that all Mary Ann's "things"

had been already bought, and perhaps some of them marked.

We are to live in a house which belongs to a cousin of Mr. Snelling;

it is to be furnished by a brother of Mrs. Snelling, the house linen

is to be supplied by the father of the young man to whom Jane Matilda

is engaged, and the ironmongery by the uncle to whom George Frederic

is apprenticed. All, apparently, that is left for me to do, is to pay

for everything. It is most delightful. It might just as well be some

one else's wedding, so unimportant is the part which I am set to play

in it.

And it is all the result of an accident. I deny that for the last

six months I have been using Mr. Snelling's home as if it were a

boarding-house. Nothing of the kind. The mere suggestion is absurd. It

is true that I have dropped in to dinner now and then, or to spend the

evening, or for an afternoon call, or for an hour or two in the

morning; but that has been simply and solely because the Snelling

family have evinced so marked a desire for my society. The alteration

which has taken place in their demeanour since my accident with Mary

Ann is, therefore, all the more amazing. For instance, look at their

behaviour in the matter of the ring.

The accident in question occurred upon the Sunday evening. I had been

with Mary Ann to church, and had seen her home, and had had a little

supper, and it was after supper that it happened. I did not go and

purchase the engagement ring the first thing on the Monday morning, I

own it. Certainly not. Nor did I take any steps in that direction

during the whole of that week. I was not pressed for time.

Besides, I was turning things over in my mind. But that was no reason

why, the Monday week following, four of her brothers should have

called on me on their way to the office, when I was scarcely out of

bed, and actually breakfasting, and assailed me in the way in which

they did.

There was William Henry, John Frank, Ferdinand Augustus, and Stephen

Arthur. Each of them twice my size and all of them frightfully

ignorant and wholly regardless of the sensitive little points of those

with whom they came in contact. There is no circumlocution about them.

They go straight at what they want; and were scarcely inside my door

before they blurted out the purport of their coming. It was Frederick

Augustus; if the thing is possible he is, if anything, more direct

even than the rest of his family.

"Look here, Whiting, how about Mary Ann's ring? The girl is fretting,

but you don't seem to notice it. And as you don't appear to know what

is the proper thing to do in a case of this kind, and don't understand

that the ring ought to be bought straight away, we've bought it for

you."

I gasped--positively gasped.

"Am I to understand that you've purchased my engagement ring?"

"That's it; on your account. From a cousin of ours who's in that

line."

I never saw people like the Snellings for possessing relatives in all

sorts of "lines." No matter what you want, or do not want, and never

will want, they are sure to have some relative who has dealt in it,

his or her whole life long.

They produced the ring, and told me what I had to pay for it. A

handsome price it was. I was persuaded that somebody besides that

cousin got a profit out of Mary Ann's engagement ring. But I handed

over the amount. I did not want any unpleasantness; and I am quite

sure there would have been unpleasantness had I demurred.

Later in the day I took it with me when I went to call on Mary Ann.

She appeared to be surprised almost into speechlessness when I

presented it to her. Her head dropped on my shoulder, and she kissed

me under the chin, observing, "You dear old Sam." The moments when I

am alone with Mary Ann are alleviations for those more frequent

moments when I am not alone with Mary Ann. Still I noticed that the

ring fitted her perfectly, and I could not but wonder if she had tried

it on before.

At the same time I am beginning to be comforted by a suspicion that

Mary Ann is on my side; on my side, that is, as against the rest of

her family. There has been a difference of opinion as to where we are

to spend our honeymoon. It is from her action in that matter that my

suspicion springs.

The Snellings have an aunt who lives in an out-of-the-way hole at the

other end of nowhere. The woman's name is Brady. There she owns a

cottage, or it may be a pigstye for all I know. When she heard of my

engagement with Mary Ann, she wrote and suggested that we should spend

our honeymoon in her cottage, or pigstye, and that I should pay her

rent for it. The matter was talked about at dinner. Mary Ann was

silent for some time; then she quietly remarked:

"Don't trouble yourselves to discuss Aunt Brady's proposal. I shall do

nothing of the kind."

This observation was followed by perfect silence. The members of the

family looked at one another. But, after a very considerable pause,

her mother said, with quite unusual mildness, "Very well, my dear.

Then, it's settled."

After dinner I took advantage of an opportunity which offered to thank

Mary Ann for her action in the matter, because, of course, I had no

wish to spend my honeymoon in a place of which I knew nothing, to

oblige an aunt of whom I knew still less. Mary Ann beamed at me, and

she said, "You dear old man!" Presently she continued:

"Do you know that in marrying me you are doing the best thing for

yourself that you ever did in all your life?"

I endeavoured to explain to her that I felt sure of it; but I fear

that my explanation was a little stumbling. But she went on with the

most perfect fluency. There were no signs of faltering about her flow

of language.

"You want someone who can look after you; and you could not, by any

chance, have chosen a person who will look after you better than I

shall."

Such an assurance was most satisfactory. We had a long confidential

chat on matters of business. I found that as a woman of business she

was beyond all my expectations.

I told her exactly what my income was; and the source from which it

came, and all about it. She drew up a plan on which we were to lay it

out. It was an admirable plan. I had never had one, but I saw clearly

that in that way the money would go twice as far.

It turned out that she had a little money of her own; about a hundred

and thirty pounds a year. And, of course, I had my expectations, and

she had hers. It was plain that together we should manage most

comfortably. Delightfully, in fact. On the subject of wedding

presents, too, her ideas were the most lucid I ever yet encountered.

It was wonderful to listen to her--really wonderful.

"I shall make papa give me five hundred pounds, at least. 'A bird in

the hand is worth two in a bush'--and it will be something to have by

us."

I quite agreed with her remarks about the bird in the hand; and it

certainly will be something to have by us.

"I know what mamma can afford to give, and I will see she gives it.

And I will see that there is no shirking about the boys--or about the

girls either. I will take care that my relations do their duty. I have

drawn up a list of all the people who ought to give us a present, and

I shall tell them what they ought to give--it won't be my fault if I

don't get it. Of course there are some people with whom you can't be

perfectly plain, but I shall be as plain as I can; there's a way and a

manner of doing that kind of thing. I have no intention of being

presented with an endless collection of duplicates, or a lot of

useless rubbish which I don't know what to do with. If you take my

advice you will follow in my footsteps."

I endeavoured to. At least I drew up a list of people who ought to

meet the occasion, and I tried in more than one instance to drop a

hint of what, as I felt, they ought to meet it with.

But I am bound to admit that so far my success has been as nothing

compared with hers. Hers has been prodigious. It is certain that we

have a large collection of really valuable property about the

house--the wedding presents to Mary Ann. She has a knack of getting

people to do what she wishes and to give her what she wants, which is

a little short of miraculous.

A singular feature about the situation is that people are actually

beginning to pity me--to sympathise with me for being about to marry

Mary Ann. I notice that they are generally persons who have already

tendered their offerings. The fact of having given Mary Ann a wedding

present seems to fill them with a feeling of rancorous acidity which,

to me, is inexplicable. My belief is that they have been induced to

spend at least twice as much as they intended, and that they resent

it. Such is the selfishness of human nature. But why, on that account,

they should pity me, I altogether fail to understand.

"We have all been giving Mary Ann presents, and I suppose you, Mr.

Whiting, have been giving her something too." That was what Mrs.

Macpherson said to me only the other day. I have given Mary Ann two or

three trifles, and I said so. "And what," inquired Mrs. Macpherson,

"has Mary Ann given you?"

"Her love."

Someone sniggered. I cannot pretend to explain why, except on the

supposition that romance is dead; at least in that circle of society

in which the Snellings move. But that is not the only society the

world contains.

As a matter of fact, Mary Ann has given me a pair of slippers, worked

by her own hands. It is true that they are a trifle large for me, and

that I shall never be able to keep them on my feet except when I am

sitting still. But Mary Ann does not seem to think that that matters,

so why should I? Her youngest sister, Clara Louisa, has quite

gratuitously informed me that she has had them by her for some

considerable time, and that, not to put too fine a point on it, they

were originally designed for another individual altogether--a Mr.

Pilbeam. But even supposing that what Clara Louisa says is true--of

which I have no evidence--I have, surely, cause to congratulate myself

on standing literally in Mr. Pilbeam's shoes, even if they are a

little spacious.

On the whole I do not know that I regret that accident I had with Mary

Ann. It is true that there are times when I am a little disposed to

wish that she were not quite so good a manager; now and then every man

likes to call his soul his own. On the other hand, she is well

qualified to protect me from the rest of the family. She will keep

them at bay. Because it is beginning to dawn on me that, singlehanded,

she is more than a match for them all. Which is just as well. If she

had been like me they would have rent us limb from limb. As it is,

unless I am mistaken, some of the rending will be on our side. And

they know it!

P.S.--The cards are out for the wedding. It is to take place on

Tuesday fortnight. We are going for our honeymoon to Italy and the

South of France. A second cousin of Mary Ann's is in the Cook's Tours

line. He has given us free passes all the way to the end of our

journey, and all the way back again; and coupons for free board and

lodging at the hotel. It's a wedding present. So that, as Mary Ann

says, our honeymoon need cost us practically nothing. Besides which we

can always sell the coupons and railway passes which we don't use.

Nothing could be more delightful.

A SUBSTITUTE.

THE STORY OF MY LAST CRICKET-MATCH.

CHAPTER I.

I AM APPOINTED CAPTAIN.

I have some idea of cricket--not much, perhaps, but I certainly have

some. I was not in the 'Varsity team, nor near it; but I played in the

Freshman's match, and provided myself with spectacles. I was nearly in

the school team once. That was when I carried my bat for forty-five. I

must own that my performance was a surprise to everyone--and to myself

among the rest. But as I never repeated it--or anything like it--they

left me, very wisely, out of the eleven.

Thus it will be seen that, from a cricketing point of view, I did not,

even in my best days, come up to first-rate form; and my best days

were, reckoning from last summer, quite fifteen years ago. During

those fifteen years I do not remember once handling a bat, far less

hitting at a cricket-ball with one; and yet, in this state of

unpreparedness, I had the presumption last summer to captain a team,

and to lead them on--well, not to victory but to disgrace. It's a fact.

The match was Storwell _v_. Latchmere. Storwell was _my_ team; and as

I do not think a more remarkable match was ever known in the whole

annals of cricketing history, I here venture to report it.

When they first asked me to play I thought they were mad.

Storwell-on-Sea is a village on the south coast--I beg pardon; I

believe it is called by the inhabitants a town. It is a pretty place,

and not unknown--in the locality. It has a season and all that kind of

thing, and it was during the season I was there. And one day a

deputation of the inhabitants called on me at my lodgings to ask if I

would lead the local cricket club to, say, victory. As I have said, my

first impression was that they were mad; either that, or else that

they were "playing it off" on the unprotected stranger.

I hinted so much to the deputation. The deputation smiled. The chief

spokesman was the local barber; his name was Sapsworth. He explained

that Mr. Wingrave had sent them there. Wingrave was the vicar; we were

"up" together, and he must have known quite well whereabouts my

cricketing form came in. I decided to crush the deputation before the

thing went farther.

"To show you the sort of man you propose should captain you, I need

only mention that it is more than fifteen years since I had a bat in

my hand."

But the admission did not crush them: quite the other way. It opened

the floodgates of their eloquence.

"That's nothing," Mr. Sapsworth cried. "There's Hedges here; we've had

to put him in; he don't even know the rules of the game, and he's just

turned sixty-one."

I glanced at Mr. Hedges, thus frankly referred to. He was a smiling,

red-faced, bald-headed old gentleman, who, if not considerable in

height, was great in girth. He would certainly have turned the scale

at sixteen stone. I felt that, to cricketers who intended to play Mr.

Hedges, any objections which I might urge would appear quite trivial.

"When is the match to be?" I asked.

"To-morrow," was the startling reply.

I was speechless. That I, after fifteen years' total abstention,

should be asked to captain a team the members of which were entire

strangers to me, and of whose individual styles of play I had not the

faintest notion, in a match against an unknown foe, at four-and-twenty

hours' notice, was a little hard to credit. It was altogether too

preposterous. I told them so. But they could not be brought to see it.

The end of it was that I agreed to play. No man knows to what a depth

of folly he can sink until he tries.

CHAPTER II.

MR. BENYON BOWLS.

The match was to be played on Mr. Stubbs's field. Mr. Stubbs was a

local butcher. Mr. Sapsworth had kindly promised to come and escort me

to the scene of action. He arrived at half-past nine, just as I was

opening my morning's letters. On the way he gave me a chart of the

country. It appeared that in batting we were not strong, in fielding

we were weak, and that our bowling was more than shaky.

"But we shall pull through," Mr. Sapsworth added; "especially now,"

and he glanced at me.

"I hope you are under no delusion as to my powers, Mr. Sapsworth. I

never was a first-rate cricketer, and, as I have already told you, it

is more than fifteen years since I handled a bat."

"If you'll excuse my saying so, sir, I've generally noticed that them

who doesn't say much does a deal."

That was one way of looking at it, no doubt; but if I did a deal, I

could only say that it would be a pleasant surprise to me.

"And our opponents--what sort of a team are they?"

Mr. Sapsworth turned up his nose--not metaphorically, but as a matter

of fact.

"If we're bad," he said, "they're wuss. There's only one thing I've

ever seen those Latchmere blokes much good at, and that is cheating.

You'll have to keep a sharp eye on them, or they'll have all our chaps

out when they ain't; and they won't go out themselves, not even when

you've bowled their three stumps down all of a row."

"Surely," I suggested, "those sort of questions are for the umpires to

decide."

"Umpires!" Up went Mr. Sapworth's nose again. "They bring their own

umpire, and he's got his own ideas of umpiring, he has. But we've got

our own umpire as well as them."

I said nothing; but Mr. Sapsworth's words conveyed to my mind pleasant

impressions of the strict rigour of the game.

When we arrived there was a goodly gathering already assembled in Mr.

Stubbs's field. A tent was erected; in and about it was a nondescript

collection of men and boys; some forty or fifty others, availing

themselves of the opportunity afforded them for a little practice,

were actually disporting themselves on the pitch on which we were

presently to play. I consoled myself with the reflection that the

worse the ground was the more _my_ bowling would tell.

Mr. Sapworth introduced me to the crowd _en masse_. Several persons

touched their caps to me; others nodded their heads; some grinned.

"Good-morning, gentlemen. We're going to have a fine day for our

match. Our team all here?"

Mr. Sapworth took upon himself to answer; he had been searching about

him with his eyes.

"They're here all right. I suppose those Latchmere chaps ain't come

yet?"

They had not come, and they did not come for an hour or more. I

employed the interval in becoming acquainted with the individual

members, arranging the order of going in, and their positions in the

field; matters in appearance simple enough, but more difficult in

practice. But at last the preliminaries were settled somehow, and the

Latchmere men appeared upon the ground.

Their captain, coming up, was introduced to me. I was informed

afterwards that he was a blacksmith. I thought he was by the way in

which he grasped my hand. His opening speech was a little surprising.

"We ain't going to play you if you've got eleven men, you know."

I inquired into his meaning.

"We've only got ten," he said. "And one of them's Soft Sawney, and

another's Sprouts."

I do not know if those were the correct names of the gentlemen

referred to, or only fancy ones by which they were known to their

friends; but he laid his hand on two of his followers and hauled them

to the front. One was a long, weedy youth, who, one saw at a glance,

was more than half an imbecile; and the other was a portly old

gentleman of fifty-five or six, with a corporation like a barrel.

Mr. Sapsworth intervened.

"What's that?" he cried. "We've got Hedges!"

He brought Mr. Hedges forward. I could not but feel that, to say the

least of it, Mr. Hedges balanced Mr. Sprouts. If Mr. Hedges could run

more than a dozen yards without pausing to take breath, I was almost

ready to express my willingness to eat my hat.

"But we've only got ten men," persisted Mr. Barker. "You'll only have

to have ten. If you think we're going to play against your eleven we

won't play you at all, so that's all about it."

There was a prospect of unpleasantness even before the match began. It

seemed that one of us would have to retire, in satisfaction of Mr.

Barker's rather unjustifiable demand. I was about to retire

myself--for I instinctively felt that, as a captain, I was no match

for Mr. Barker--when a rather curious incident occurred.

On a sudden a newcomer appeared upon the scene. I say on a sudden, for

no one had noticed his approach, and yet, all at once, there he was,

standing between the Latchmere captain and myself. To me at any rate

his presence was so unexpected, and, indeed, so startling, that I

stared. He seemed to have come out of space. He was a big, burly

fellow, with smooth cheeks, round face, bullet-shaped head, and

sleepy-looking black eyes.

"Let me play for you?" he said.

For a moment Mr. Barker stared at the stranger in surprise, in common

with the rest of us. Then he jumped at the offer.

"Let you! rather!" He thrust out his hand and caught the stranger's

palm in his. But no sooner had he got it firmly gripped than he

dropped it with an exclamation: "Why, what's the matter with you?

Ain't you well? Your hand's as cold as a frozen corpse."

I went a little aside with Mr. Sapsworth.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"I don't know, and yet I seem somehow to have seen his face before.

But let them have him. He doesn't look as though he were up to much."

He did not. Anyone looking less like a cricketer I have seldom

seen. His costume was ridiculous. He had on a pair of large check

trousers--a check of the kind which the Oxford tailor explained to the

undergraduate was a _leetle_ too large to be seen to advantage on a

single pair of understandings. He had on a huge top hat, of a size and

shape which would have made the fortune of a "lion comique." A red

woollen muffler was wound several times round his neck, and his

capacious person was enveloped in an enormous overcoat, the like of

which I had never seen before. The day promised to remind us of the

torrid zone, yet Mr. Barker had cried out that the stranger's hand

felt cold.

In the toss for innings victory fell to us. So we went in. I led the

van. My associate was a youth named Fenning. He was a mere lad, and

looked too much of a lout to be much of a cricketer. Mr. Barker led

the bowling. I soon saw that if he had any strength it was not as a

bowler. If I kept my head, I told myself, and he carried away my

bails, it would be owing to the ground; for a rougher piece of turf, I

suppose, few wickets have been pitched upon. But I was far too nervous

to take liberties even with Mr. Barker. And, indeed, when the first

over was finished, and I found myself still in, I drew a long breath

of self-congratulation.

The other bowler was, in his own line, as meritorious a specimen as

his captain. So, on the whole, things were going better than I had

expected. I had scored eleven, six off Mr. Barker, and the rest off

his friend. Even Fenning had hit up two--_literally_ hit up. I was

really beginning to think that I was getting set, which, in my

palmiest days had only happened once--thrice happy day!--when

something took place which showed me, not for the first time, the

advisability of never counting your chickens till the eggs are

hatched.

Mr. Barker was just about to commence an over. He actually had the

ball in his hand, when the substitute--the stranger who had

volunteered to fill the place of the eleventh man--came marching right

across the field. Mr. Barker saw him coming, and called out to him to

stay where he was. But, wholly unheeding, the substitute strode on. He

reached Mr. Barker, and, without saying a word, so far as I could

perceive, he coolly held out his hand for the ball. I fully expected

that the Latchmere captain would remonstrate, and not only

remonstrate, but remonstrate strongly; but, to my surprise, he

instantly surrendered the ball, and slunk rather than walked to the

place which the stranger had just quitted. So the substitute was left

to bowl.

Without doubt he was an eccentric character. Up to that moment he had

been fielding in his woollen muffler, his overcoat, and, last but not

least, his wonderful top hat. These, however, he now doffed, and laid

in a heap upon the ground. Their disappearance revealed the fact that

he wore a tight-fitting jacket which was the same wonderful pattern in

checks as his trousers. From the look of him, I certainly never

supposed that he could bowl. My surprise was, therefore, all the

greater when I discovered that he could. His action was peculiar. He

went right up to the wicket, and stood quite still, delivering the

ball with a curious flourish of the wrist. Its pace was amazing. It

pitched a good two feet to the off, and broke right in--perhaps aided

by the ground, though he certainly had found a spot. I was so

astounded by the pace--which reminded me of the old stories told of

Lillywhite; you could hear it "humming" in the air--that I never even

moved my bat. It was that which saved me. As it was the bat was all

but driven out of my hand. I told myself that on the arrival of a

second edition I should have to go. Yet I did manage to stop the next

four balls--how, I have not the faintest notion; but the sixth--for it

seemed that, in those parts, they bowled six to the over--took my

middle stump, breaking it clean off at the top.

As I entered the tent the scorer cried out--

"What name?"

"Tom Benyon," replied the bowler.

Mr. Hedges, who was seated at the scorer's side, brought down his fist

upon the trestle-table with a bang.

"I knew it was! I knowed him all along!" Mr. Hedges was in a state of

odd excitement. "That chap who bowled you ain't a man, sir--he's a

ghost."

"He manages to put a good deal of pace on the ball for a ghost," I

answered.

"And so he ought to. Did you hear what name he said? He said Tom

Benyon! There wasn't a better cricketer in all these parts than Tom

Benyon used to be. He played up in Lunnon more than once, I know, and

got well paid for playing too. But he always was a queer sort, was

Tom. I knew him well. I saw him buried. And if it is him, and not his

ghost, he ain't grown a day older these twenty years, he ain't."

I laughed. I supposed the old gentleman was jesting. But not a bit of

it. When our second man had gone to the wicket Mr. Sapsworth drew me

aside.

"I don't like the look of this," he said.

"Nor I," I answered, supposing he referred to Mr. Benyon's bowling.

"He'll bring down our stumps like ninepins."

"It isn't that. It--it's the man," he said.

"Do you mean the ghost?" I asked jokingly.

"It's easy to laugh. But----" Mr. Sapsworth paused. I could see he was

ashamed of himself, yet had his suspicions none the less. "I thought I

had seen him before, and I had. It _is_ Tom Benyon."

"He says he is Tom Benyon, and I suppose he should know best."

"Yes." Mr. Sapsworth fidgeted. "But Tom Benyon's been dead these

twenty years."

"Dead!" I cried, and laughed. "He showed himself too much alive for

me, at any rate."

"When I was a youngster," continued Mr. Sapsworth, "Tom Benyon used to

come into my father's shop to be shaved. He was always on the drink.

One morning I was all alone, minding the shop for father, when he came

in, mad drunk. I never shall forget that morning, never. He made me

sit in the shaving-chair, and set about to shave me. He soaped me all

over--face and hair and all. I was that there frightened I couldn't

make a sound. I never shall forget how I sat and watched him, with the

soap all in my eyes, as he put an edge upon the razor. Then he set

about shaving off my hair. He had got off about half of it, and I was

streaming with blood, when who should come in but my father. If he

hadn't Tom Benyon would have made an end of me."

He paused. I perceived that the mere recollection of his little

adventure affected him unpleasantly.

"There was something queer about his death. Some people said it was

drink had done for him, some of 'em said he had done for himself.

Anyhow, the whole country-side was at his funeral. I was there. I

remember it as plainly as though it was yesterday."

While I was looking at Mr. Sapsworth, and pondering his words, there

came the sound of laughter from the middle of the ground. It was not a

loud laugh, but it was a distinctly disagreeable one. I looked round.

Mr. Benyon was laughing at Mr. Fenning's discomfiture. He had served

him as he had served me--he had taken his middle stump right out of

the ground. I turned to Mr. Sapsworth.

"You follow."

"Me!" Mr. Sapsworth turned several shades whiter. "Me!" He looked

about him with a frightened air. "Mr. Trentham, I--I can't," he said.

"Nonsense, Sapsworth! You don't mean to say that you are going to

allow yourself to be frightened by any nonsense about a ghost, and in

broad daylight too!"

The little man did not look by any means reassured by my tone of

derision. He seemed more inclined to take to his heels than to take

his place at the wickets. It is not impossible that he might have done

so had he not been addressed from a different quarter.

"Bob Sapsworth!" It was Mr. Benyon calling to the little barber right

across the field. "Come and be shaved!"

I own that I myself was startled. The words were apposite, to say the

least of it. We had just been speaking of Mr. Sapsworth's experience

of the shaver's art as practised by Mr. Benyon's hands, and here was

Mr. Benyon's namesake inviting him, if not to be cut, at least to come

again. On Mr. Sapsworth the effect of the invitation was surprising.

He had on his pads, his bat was in his hand. Without a word he

shuffled towards the stumps. If ever I saw a man go to the wickets in

a state of "mortal funk," I saw him then.

I myself moved towards the scoring-tent. The state of things within it

at once impressed me as peculiar. It had been filled, a little time

ago, with jovial faces. Now, the owners of those faces might have been

attendants at a funeral. And many a man has had a livelier following

to the grave than I saw assembled then.

Fenning came shambling into the tent. I spoke to him.

"Mr. Benyon's bowling was too much for you, eh, Fenning?"

Unless I am mistaken, Mr. Fenning wiped a tear out of his eye. He

certainly put up his hand and rubbed the optic with his knuckles.

"I never seed such bowling! 'Tain't fair!" he said.

"What is there unfair about it, Fenning?"

"It comes so sharp. I never seed the ball afore there was my wickets

down."

I smiled. Not so the company. They regarded Mr. Fenning's words with

different eyes. Mr. Hedges gave expression to the general opinion.

"You ain't never seen such bowling afore, and you won't never see such

bowling again. 'Cause why? 'Cause it's a ghost that's bowling, not a

man!"

Mr. Fenning looked about him with open eyes, and with open mouth as

well. "A ghost!" he mumbled.

"A ghost!" said Mr. Hedges.

I expostulated.

"Come, Mr. Hedges, you frighten the lad. I am surprised, too, that a

man of your age and experience and wisdom should talk nonsense about

ghosts."

Mr. Hedges looked up at me a little sharply.

"If he ain't a ghost, what's become of the things that he's took off?"

I asked him what he meant. He pointed across the ground.

"He took off his hat and his coat and his scarf, and he laid 'em on

the grass. He ain't touched 'em, and no one ain't took 'em, yet

they're gone! We saw 'em go. If he ain't a ghost, what's become of the

things that he's took off?"

Mr. Hedges grew a little excited. I looked in the direction in which

the old gentleman was pointing. The garments he referred to had

apparently vanished, but, of course, their disappearance was

susceptible of a most natural explanation. I should have maintained

this proposition with more confidence had it not been for something

which immediately occurred.

Mr. Benyon was preparing to deliver his first ball to Mr. Sapsworth,

and as I eyed him I noted the extremely unworkmanlike attitude in

which Mr. Sapsworth awaited the delivery. Preparatory to delivering

the ball Mr. Benyon divested himself of his remarkable coat, which

matched his trousers, and in so doing disclosed a waistcoat which

matched his coat. Neatly folding up the garment, he laid it beside him

on the ground. No sooner did it touch the ground than it disappeared.

I am unable to say how, but it did, and that before the eyes of all

the lookers-on. This singular behaviour on the part of that curious

garment took me by surprise.

After that I was prepared to excuse a certain amount of nervousness on

the part of Mr. Sapsworth. To Mr. Benyon Mr. Sapsworth's nervousness

seemed to afford positive pleasure. He cried, in a tone which was

perhaps _meant_ to be jovial:

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, prepare to be shaved!"

The ball went from his hand like lightning. Mr. Sapsworth yelled. Mr.

Benyon sent down his second ball--whack! not against the bat, but, I

should say, as nearly as possible against the same portion of Mr.

Sapsworth's frame which it had struck before. Any cricketer might have

been demoralised after receiving two such blows, but he would at least

have tried to get out of the way of the ball instead of in it. Mr.

Sapsworth placed his person exactly where the ball might be expected

to come, and, for once in a way, expectation was realised--it did

come. The third, fourth, and fifth balls found an exactly similar

billet, and the sixth not only knocked his bat out of his trembling

hands, but all three of his stumps clean out of the ground.

"I said I'd shave you, Bobby!" shouted Mr. Benyon, as the victim went

limping from the place of execution.

"Next man in," I said.

"I ain't going in," courteously rejoined the player whose turn it was

to follow. I was about to ask him why, when I was saved the trouble by

Mr. Benyon.

"Jack Hawthorn!" Oddly enough, the man's name was Hawthorn, though how

Mr. Benyon came to know that he was next man in is more than I can

say. Mr. Hawthorn was a huge fellow quite six feet high; but at the

sound of Mr. Benyon's voice he rose, docile as a child. "I'm waiting

for you."

Without pads Mr. Hawthorn went striding across the turf, content to

use the bat which Mr. Sapsworth had left lying on the ground. That

hero came limping into the tent.

"It's a ghost," he said.

I could not but feel that the fellow was something of a cur. To this

feeling I gave expression.

"Ghost or no ghost, rather than let him pound me all over the body

with the ball, I would have made one try to hit at it. And you told me

that you were an all-round player."

No doubt the man must have been suffering considerable pain, but I was

too much annoyed at his cowardice to feel for him. Besides, the whole

thing was so preposterous.

Undoubtedly, as a trundler Mr. Benyon was superb. I have no hesitation

in saying that I do not remember to have seen finer bowling than his

on any ground in England. He combined two things which, so far as I am

aware, are not to be found together in any living player--pace _and_

break. But it was not his bowling, fine as it was, which promised to

work our ruin, so much as the absurd belief entertained by the members

of the team that he--check trousers and all--was a ghost. An idea came

into my head. I resolved that I would ask him, point-blank, in the

face of all the people, if he was a ghost. If his answers did not

satisfy the doubters nothing would.

The opportunity occurred just as he was about to begin his following

over. Moving from the tent, I advanced towards the wickets.

"Excuse me, Mr. Benyon, but before you commence to bowl might I speak

to you a word?"

He turned and looked at me. As he did so I was conscious that, in the

most emphatic sense of the word, his appearance was peculiar. He

looked as though he were a corpse, and an unhealthy corpse to

boot--the sort of corpse that no man would spend a night with

willingly. And this unpleasant appearance was accentuated by his

ridiculous attire. Fancy a dead man, of a bloated habit of body,

taking his walks abroad in a suit of checks--each check twelve inches

square! I was so uncomfortably conscious that Mr. Benyon did not look

a clubbable kind of man that I faltered in my speech.

"You will excuse me, Mr. Benyon, if the question I am about to put to

you appears to you even worse than absurd, but the members of my team

have some ridiculous notion in their heads that you are a certain Tom

Benyon who died twenty years ago, and who now lies buried in the

churchyard. I am sure, therefore, you will forgive my asking, are you

a ghost?"

Mr. Benyon eyed me, and I eyed him--not willingly, but because, for

some reason or other, I could not help it. At last he answered,

speaking in a sort of shout,

"I am."

Of course such an answer was absurd--ridiculously absurd. As I sit

here writing no man could be more conscious of its absurdity than I

am. But _then_ it was not _that_ I was so conscious of as of a cold

shiver going all down my back, and of a sort of feeling as though

Providence had sent me out into the world knock-kneed. I struggled

against a strong inclination to sit down upon the turf and stop there.

But being at the same time dimly aware that I was making an unexampled

fool of myself, I made a frantic effort to regain the use of my

tongue.

"Oh, you--you are a ghost! I--I thought so. Tha--thanks."

How I got back to the tent I have not the faintest notion. But I do

know that after that exhibition of the sort of stuff that I was made

of, disaster followed hard upon disaster.

The first wicket--my own--had fallen for thirteen runs. The second,

and the third, had seen the score unaltered. Hawthorn was the fourth

man in. He was so fortunate as to appear upon the scene just as I put

my fatal question--it was to give him a chance I put it. The answer

settled him--that is, if there was anything left to settle. I am not

able to state exactly what became of him, but I have a clear

impression that he was out at the end of the over. Moreover, of this I

am well assured, that nine wickets fell without an addition being made

to the score. I suppose that is, in its way, a record.

Whether Mr. Benyon owed the inhabitants of his native place a grudge

the evidence before me does not enable one to decide; but, if he did,

he certainly paid it in full that day. Although he bowled at the

wickets he hit the players first. Nor was this, so far as appearances

went, in any way his fault; they seemed to have a singular knack of

getting just in the way of the ball. The order of the innings was

this: the ball hit each man five times, and the wickets once. At the

end of each of Mr. Benyon's overs a batsman returned to the tent a

sadder and a lamer man.

One case in particular was hard. It was the case of Mr. Hedges. He was

the last man in; when his turn came, with the score still at thirteen

runs, he stuck to his seat like glue.

"Won't somebody go in for me?" he asked, as he saw his doom

approaching. "I ain't no cricketer," he added, a little later on. "Now

am I?" He asked the question of his friends, but his friends were

still. He addressed himself to Mr. Sapsworth. "Bob Sapsworth, you

asked me to play, now didn't you? You says to me, 'If you play,

William Hedges,' you says, 'I shouldn't be surprised but what the gent

as we're going to ask to captain us stands you a free lunch,' you

says, 'not to speak of drinks,' you says." I pricked up my ears at

this, but held my tongue. "But you says nothing about being bowled at

by a ghost, now did you now; I ask you, Bob Sapsworth, did you now?"

Mr. Sapsworth was silent. The old gentleman went on:

"I shan't go in," he announced. That was when the ninth batsman had

received Mr. Benyon's first ball--upon his person. "Nothing shan't

make me go in to be bowled at by a ghost." This second announcement

followed the delivery of the second ball upon the batsman's person. "I

ain't no cricketer, and I don't know nothing about the rules of the

game, and I ain't going to stand up to be chucked at by a ghost," and

Mr. Hedges struck his fist upon the board. There came a yell from the

wickets; Mr. Hedges gripped his seat tightly with his hands. "I won't

go in!" he cried. Another ball, another yell. Mr. Hedges repeated his

determination over and over again, as if in its reiteration he sought

for strength to keep it. "I won't! I won't! I won't!"

The last ball of the over, and the ninth of our hopes had fallen. A

pause ensued. The batsman came limping towards the tent. Mr. Hedges'

time was come; he clutched at the seat with the frenzy of despair.

"Bill Hedges!" sang out Mr. Benyon; but Mr. Hedges gave no sign. "Bill

Hedges!" Still no reply. "Bill Hedges, have I got to come and fetch

you?"

At that awful threat the old gentleman did rise. His ample form went

waddling across the ground.

"I--I'm a-coming, Tom. I--I ain't no cricketer, Tom. Do--don't you be

too hard on me. If you must hit me, let it be behind."

"Where's your bat?"

The inquiry came from Mr. Benyon. Mr. Hedges had arrived at the wicket

without that batsman's requisite. He scratched his head.

"My bat? I--I don't want no bat. I--I ain't no cricketer. You can hit

me quite as well without it, Tom."

"Go and get your bat!"

Mr. Hedges went and got it. When he had it it was evident that he had

but rudimentary notions of its uses. He held it gingerly, round side

foremost, as though he were afraid that if he grasped it tightly it

would burn him.

"Bill Hedges, do you remember those drinks you paid for me the

Saturday week before I died?"

"No, Tom; I can't say rightly as how I do."

"You did. It was at the 'Crown and Anchor.' I had no money. I said if

you'd stand Sam I'd pay you back again; but I never did. I'll pay you

now."

Mr. Benyon paid him, five times over. The old gentleman bore it like a

lamb. Whack--whack--whack--whack--whack! and the fall of his wicket at

the end. As he returned towards the tent he wiped his wrinkled brow.

"I always said I wasn't no cricketer, and I ain't," he said.

CHAPTER III.

AND BATS.

Our innings was over--for thirteen runs. We sat there, moping in a

crowd, I among the rest, when Mr. Benyon, bustling up, reminded me of

my duties as a captain.

"Now then, turn out. Send your men into the field. We can't stop here

all day. I'm first man in; soon I'll have to go, and I haven't had a

smack at a cricket-ball these twenty years!"

We looked at each other. One part of his address gave us a certain

gratification--that part in which he stated that he soon would have to

go. We turned out. I suppose a more unpromising set of fieldsmen never

yet took their places in the field. The Latchmere men went slouching

towards the tent; some of them, I noticed, instead of going in stole

towards the rear. These, I suspect, stole off the ground; I never set

eyes on them again.

"Mr. Trentham, I--I can't bowl," whispered Mr. Sapsworth to me as we

moved across the turf.

He and I had agreed that we should start the bowling. I confess that I

felt no more inclined to act up to the letter of our agreement than he

did. But Mr. Benyon intervened.

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, you take the bowling one end, and let your

captain take the other. Captain, you take first over."

I obeyed without a murmur. It might have been quite a usual thing to

see in a match a member of one team ordering about the captain of the

other. I do not think that our field was arranged on scientific

principles; I may certainly claim that I had nothing to do with its

arrangement. There is a suspicion floating through my mind that at one

or two points--two, or more--men were placed unusually close together.

For instance, at deep mid-off--very deep mid-off--Mr. Hawthorn and Mr.

Hedges were not only doing their best to trample on each other's toes,

but each was seeking for a place of security behind the other's back.

Mr. Barker shared with Mr. Benyon the honour of being first man in.

The Latchmere captain, as a captain, had become quite as much a

figurehead as I had. His bearing was indicative of extreme depression.

I think he had learned that to take, off-hand, the first substitute

who offered, was, now and then, unwise.

To enable him to bat with more advantage, Mr. Benyon had removed his

waistcoat, which matched his trousers and his coat. What he had done

with it I cannot say; possibly it had vanished, with his other

garments, into air. Now he had on a bright red flannel shirt--his

tastes in costume seemed a trifle lurid--the sleeves of which were

turned up above the elbows. His pose was almost as peculiar as his

costume. He stood bolt upright, his legs together, his feet drawn heel

to heel; not at all in the fashion of a modern cricketer, who seeks to

guard his wickets with his legs. His bat he held straight down in

front of him, the blade swinging gently in the air.

I am afraid I wasted more time in preparing to deliver my first ball

than I need have done; but if Mr. Benyon had not had a smack with a

bat for twenty years it was a good fifteen since I had bowled a ball.

After such a lapse of time one requires to pull oneself together

before exhibiting one's powers to a cricketer of Mr. Benyon's calibre.

He, however, did not seem to recognise the necessity which I myself

felt that I was under.

"Hurry up, sir! Don't I tell you that soon I'll have to go?"

I hurried up. I gave him an overhand full pitch which would have made

a decent catch for point, if point had been close in, which he wasn't.

However, in any case Mr. Benyon would have saved him the trouble. He

hit the ball a crack the like of which I had never seen before. He

drove it over the hedge, and over the trees, and up to the skies, and

out of sight.

"I don't think that's a bad little smack to start with," he observed.

"I like your kind of bowling, mister. I suppose that's a boundary." He

called to the scorer--if there was one, which I doubt--"Put down Tom

Benyon six!" He turned again to me. "It's no good wasting time looking

for that ball. I've another in my pocket you can have."

He put his hand into his trousers' pocket. Those remarkable garments

fitted him like eel-skins. I had certainly never supposed that he

could by any possibility have such a thing as a cricket-ball in one of

the pockets. But it appeared that he had. He drew one out and threw it

up to me.

My second ball was a colourable imitation of my first, only this time

it was wide to leg. To long-leg Mr. Benyon sent it flying.

"Put down Tom Benyon another six!" he cried. "I _do_ like your

bowling, mister. I've got another ball which you can have."

He produced a second ball from the same pocket from which the first

had come. I could scarcely believe my eyes. But I was discovering,

with Horatio, that there were more things in heaven and earth than had

been contained in my philosophy. Since Mr. Benyon professed such

affection for the style of bowling which I favoured, I sent him down

another sample. This time it was fairly straight--by which I mean that

it would not have pitched more than a yard from the wickets if Mr.

Benyon had allowed it to pitch, which he didn't. He treated it as he

had done the first--he drove it, with terrific force, right above my

head.

"Never mind about the ball," he said. "I've got another in my pocket."

He had--the third. And in the same pocket from which the other two had

come.

My fourth ball he treated to a swipe to square-leg. He seemed to have

a partiality for swiping. Quite unnecessarily he allowed that this was

so.

"I do like a ball which I can get a smack at," he remarked as he

produced a fourth ball from the same pocket of his tightly-fitting

trousers which had contained the other three. "A swipe does warm me

so. Your kind of bowling, mister, 's just the thing."

It was kind of him to say so; though, to my thinking, his remark did

not convey a compliment. When he sent my fifth ball out of sight I

wished that his love for swiping had been less, or my bowling of

another kind. The sixth, however, which he also produced from the same

wondrous store contained in his breeches pocket, he contented himself

with what he called "snicking."

"That's what I call a pretty snick," he said.

The "snick" in question was a tremendous drive to deep mid-off. It was

stopped, quite involuntarily, by Mr. Hawthorn and Mr. Hedges. So far

as I could see, it stunned the pair of them. Neither of them made the

slightest attempt to return the ball.

"Run it out!" cried Mr. Benyon. He and Mr. Barker began to run. They

ran four, and then they ran two more, and still the ball was not

thrown in. Mr. Benyon urged the fielders on. "Hurry up, Bill Hedges!"

Mr. Hedges did not hurry up; he never could have hurried up, even if

his manner of "fielding" the ball had not wholly deprived him of his

wind. But the ball was at last thrown in--when the pair had run

eleven. Forty-one runs off his first over was a result calculated to

take the conceit out of the average bowler. And Mr. Benyon's last

performance, his "snick," had placed him at the other wicket, prepared

to receive Mr. Sapsworth's bowling--when it came.

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, I'll have a smack at you!" he said.

He had. I felt for Mr. Sapsworth. But since I had suffered it was only

fair that he should suffer too. Crack--smack--whack went the balls out

of sight in all directions. And for each ball that disappeared Mr.

Benyon produced another from his breeches pocket. I felt that these

things must be happening to me in a dream. I was rapidly approaching

the condition in which Alice must have been in Wonderland--prepared

for anything.

Time went on. Mr. Sapsworth and I bowled over after over. Mr. Benyon

was making a record in tall scoring. No performance of "W. G.'s" ever

came within many miles of it. And the balls he lost! And the balls

which he produced! And the diabolical ingenuity with which he managed,

at the close of every over, to change his end! If Mr. Barker did no

hitting, he did some running. He never had a chance to make a stroke,

but his partner took care to make him run an incredibly large odd

number as a wind up to every over. Mr. Benyon did not seem to be

distressed by the exertion in the least; Mr. Barker emphatically did.

Mr. Benyon had buoyed us up by his statement that he would soon have

to go. His ideas of soon were different from ours. I suppose, at the

outside, our innings had lasted half an hour. How long we bowled to

Mr. Benyon is more than I can say. I know that I bowled until I felt

that I should either have to stop or drop. By degrees one fact began

to be impressed upon me. It was this--that the number of spectators

was growing smaller by degrees and beautifully less. Originally there

had been quite a crowd assembled. In course of time this had dwindled

to half a dozen stragglers. A little later on even these had gone. And

not only spectators but cricketers had disappeared. If my eyes did not

deceive me, there was not a member of the Latchmere team left on the

ground. They had had enough of Mr. Benyon--or his ghost.

What was more, some of our own team took courage, and leg-bail. I

caught one of them--the lad Fenning--in the act of scrambling through

the hedge. But I had not the heart to stop him. I only wished that I

had been so fortunate as to have led the van.

The thing grew serious. So far as I could see, Mr. Hawthorn, Mr.

Hedges, Mr. Sapsworth, and I were the only members of the Storwell

team left on the ground. And the reflection involuntarily crossed my

mind--what fools we were to stay! The amount of running about we had

to do! And the way in which Mr. Benyon urged us on! The perspiration

was running off from us in streams--I had never had such a "sweater"

before!

"I do like your kind of bowling, mister," Mr. Benyon would constantly

remark.

If I had had an equal admiration for his kind of batting we should

have been quits, but I had not; at least not then.

A little later, looking round the field, I found that Mr. Hawthorn had

disappeared, and that Mr. Hedges, stuck in a hedge, was struggling

gallantly to reach safety on the other side. It was the last ball of

Mr. Sapsworth's over. Mr. Benyon ran thirteen for a hit to leg. He

made Mr. Barker run them too--it was the proverbial last straw. As Mr.

Barker was running the thirteenth run, instead of going to his wicket

he dropped his bat--the bat which he had never had a chance to

utilise--and bolted off the field as though Satan was behind him. Mr.

Benyon called out to him, but Mr. Barker neither stopped nor stayed.

It seemed that the match was going to resolve itself into a game of

single wicket.

To make things better, when I came up to bowl I perceived that Mr.

Sapsworth's power of endurance had reached its tether. The position he

had taken up in the field had not much promise of usefulness. He first

stood close up to the hedge, then he stood in the middle of the hedge,

then--I doubt if he _stood_ upon the other side. But at least he had

vanished from my ken. And I was left alone to bowl to Mr. Benyon. That

over!

"I do like your kind of bowling, mister," he observed when, as usual,

he sent my first ball out of sight. "Never mind about the ball. I've

got one in my pocket you can have."

He had. He produced it--always from the same pocket. It was about the

second thousand.

"It does warm me so to swipe." This he said when he had sent my second

ball on a journey to find its brother. Then a ball or two later on, "I

call that a tidy smack." The "smack" in question had driven the ball,

for anything I know to the contrary, a distance of some five miles or

so.

The next ball I fielded. It was the first piece of fielding I had done

that day, and that was unintentional. It laid me on the ground. It was

some moments before I recovered myself sufficiently to enable me to

look round. When I did so no one was in sight. I was alone in the

field. The opposite wicket was deserted. The bat lay on the ground.

And Mr. Benyon had gone!

THE END.