Coming Events
AT six next morning my man found me in pyjamas, flourishing a bat up
and down a chalk line on the bedroom carpet.
“Are you quite sure it’s perfectly straight, William?”
“Quite straight, sir; but mind the wardrobe door, sir!”
“I think I’ll try that blind hit of Gunn’s between point and cover.”
“All right, sir; if you’ll just wait while I move the water-jug. Your
left leg a little more across--just a little; and how’s the late cut
this morning, sir?”
“Never healthier in its life. Here you are. Look out!”
Crash! Plop! The glass in the wardrobe door had met the fate of its
predecessors. The aggravating thing about the wardrobe door is that if
you have it of glass you must inevitably break it; yet should you have
a plain panel you can’t see what angle your bat’s at and where your
feet are.
“I was hoping all the time that you’d smash it, sir,” said William in a
confidential tone. “It’s a strange thing, sir, but every time you smash
the wardrobe door you never get less than 50. If you remember, when you
got that 82 last year against the Free Foresters you smashed it the
morning of the match. Then that 61 against M.C.C. (O’Halloran and Roche
an’ all), same thing occurred, if you recollect. And it’s my belief
that you’ve smashed it worse this morning, sir, than you’ve ever done
before. It _might_ be the century to-day, sir.”
“I wonder if the water-jug or washhand-stand would help it,” said I
reflectively; “because, William, if you really think they would----”
“Somehow,” said William hastily, “I haven’t quite the same faith in
that there water-jug. I remember once you cracked it right across the
spout and got ‘run out 3’ on that particular mornin’. Captain Cooper
called you, and then sent you back, if you remember, sir, when you was
halfway down the pitch.”
“I remember,” I groaned. “Those are the tragedies of which our little
life is made!”
“And the washhand-stand ain’t no good at all, sir. Why, when you
knocked the leg off it in giving Mold the wood, you bagged a brace at
Pigeon Hill that day on what they called a wicket, but what was really
a hornamental lake.”
“Spare me the horrible details, William,” I said. A cold sensation was
creeping down my spine.
Having tubbed and shaved I felt so fit as I walked down to have a
look at the ground before breakfast that I had to restrain myself
from jumping five-barred gates. It was a perfect morning, flushed
with summer. The birds on the boughs were welcoming the young sun;
the mists were running before him; the dew on the trees was dancing
to him; whilst the drenched meadows and the cool haze receding to the
hills promised ninety in the shade to follow. Evidently Nature, like a
downright good sportsman, was going to let us have a real cricketers’
day for a true cricketing occasion. Such fragrance made the blood leap.
Every muscle seemed electric. To snuff the chill airs was to feel as
fit and full of devil as a racehorse. By Jove, I felt like getting
’em! There were clean off-drives in the eager brooks, clipping cuts
for four in the sparkling grass, sweet leg glances in the singing
hedgerows, inimitable hooks and behind-the-wicket strokes in the
cheerful field noises and the bird-thrilled branches; and when the sun
burst out more fully in premonition of what was to be his magnificent
display at Little Clumpton _versus_ Hickory later in the day, I said
to an unresponsive cow, “How do you like that, H. C.?” for I had just
lifted the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods, clean
out of the ground for six. And having begun to this tune, of course I
went on getting ’em. I continued cutting, driving, and leg hitting at
such a pace, that by the time I had made the half-mile to the ground
that morning, a mere five minutes’ walk, I was rapidly approaching my
century. They may talk of Jessop, but I think this gives a long start
to any performances of his, although it is possible that he may have
had to meet bowling rather more “upon the spot.” I was in great form
though.
I found the ground-man standing beside the wicket, looking at it
lovingly. He had his head on one side, as he gazed with an air as of
Michael Angelo surveying his masterpiece.
“Mornin’ to you, sir!”
“Mornin’ Wiggles. How’s the wicket?”
“This ain’t no wicket, sir. It’s a bloomin’ billiard-table wot Dawson’s
a’ inviting of Roberts to come and play on. And Lord, sir, have you
seed the side that Hickory’s a-bringing--a bloomin’ county team.
There’s them there Trenthams, all the boiling of ’em, and Carteret
and Elphinstone of Kent. They do say as how Francis Ford and Fry’s
a-coming, too, as Hickory’s a bit weak in batting like, seeing as how
Billy Thumbs the cobbler’s short o’ practice. Well, sir, I on’y hopes
they comes, and Ranjy with ’em, because, if you come to think on it,
Hickory ain’t got no side at all. And such a piece of concrete wot’s
awaiting ’em! ’Tween you and me, sir, I think if I was a bowler I
should take to batting for to-day.”
“We had better win the toss then,” I said gloomily.
“That’s a very good idea, sir, for I’m thinking whoever gets in on
this, somebody’ll be so tired afore six-thirty.”
Looking at that wicket and brooding on the awful array of batsmen
Hickory was bringing, and what the result must be if they only got in
first, I was tempted of the devil. The turf was soft with dew. I had
merely to press my heel once into that billiard-table to nip some of
their prospective centuries in the bud. And who shall say whether human
frailty had prevailed against the wiles of evil had it not remembered
that Hickory were not _obliged_ to go in first.
I went home to breakfast trying to restrain my excess of “fitness.” For
cricket is cussedness incarnate. You rise in the morning like a giant
refreshed: your blood is jumping, the ball looks as big as a balloon,
and you have a go at one you ought to let alone, and spoon it up to
cover. Excess of “fitness” gets more wickets than Lohmann ever took.
I was in the middle of the _Sportsman_ and my fourth egg when William
appeared with a countenance of tragedy.
“I can’t find it, sir; it’s clean gone!” he said.
“Not the bat with the wrapping at the bottom?” I gasped, turning pale.
“No, sir; worse than that,” he said.
“Speak!” I cried; “what is it?”
“Your cap,” he said. “The one you made the 82, the 61, and 67 not out
in.”
“What, the Authentics! It must be found, or I don’t go in to-day.
Couldn’t get a run without that cap.”
The sweat stood on my brow.
“It’s my belief, sir,” said William darkly, “that this here’s a bit O’
Hickory. They knows how, like W. G., its always one particular cap you
gets your runs in, and they’ve had it took according.”
This was very nice of William. His tact was charming. But the idea of
my facing Hickory without my lucky cap was as monstrous as the captain
going out to toss without his George II. shilling.
“William,” I said, “if you have to take the carpets up and have the
chimneys swept, that cap must be found.”
William returned disconsolately to his search, whilst I fell into a
train of dismal speculation. Falling to the _Sportsman_ in despair my
eye fell on a few items of a cheerful and peculiar interest:--
“KENT _v._ NOTTS.--Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, c Jones, b Attewell,
172; J. P. Carteret, b Dixon, 103.
“This brilliant pair of amateurs completely collared the Notts attack
at Canterbury yesterday, and in the course of two hours and a quarter
helped themselves to 254 for the second wicket.
“MIDDLESEX _v._ YORKSHIRE.--A. H. Trentham, run out, 97.
“Yesterday, at Lord’s, that delightful batsman, A. H. Trentham,
reduced the resourceful Yorkshire bowling to something that bore a
family resemblance to common piffle. To the great disappointment of
the enthusiastic company[B] he had the misfortune to be beautifully
thrown out by F. S. Jackson when within three of the coveted three
figures. Among his strokes were seventeen fours, including a
couple of remarkable drives off Rhodes into the pavilion seats.
Had he topped the century yesterday it would have been his fifth
this season in county cricket. As it is, he is still second in the
first-class averages; and we certainly think that the Old Country
is to be congratulated on having A. H. Trentham to represent her in
the forthcoming test games in Australia. His absolute confidence and
his fine forcing method, it is not premature to say, will be seen to
singular advantage on the fast and true colonial grounds.”
Reader (_loquitur_): “Damn his fine forcing method! I wonder why
Wiggles hadn’t the sense to water that wicket. Anyway, I wish Jacker
had let him have his fling. They’re always worse when they’ve been run
out.”
“HOUSEHOLD BRIGADE _v._ ROYAL ARTILLERY.--Captain Trentham, c
Wolseley, b Kitchener, 150.
“Playing for C.U.L.V.C. _v._ N. F. Druce’s XI. yesterday, H. C.
Trentham, the crack Cambridge bowler, took nine wickets for eight
runs. His performance included the ‘hat trick.’ The ball with
which he bowled Prince Ranjitsinhji knocked one bail a distance of
fifty-nine yards five and half inches. We believe we are correct in
saying that this is a world’s record, providing that ‘up country in
Australia,’ that home of the cricket miracle, is unable to furnish
anything to beat it.
“HARROW WANDERERS _v._ GENTLEMEN OF CHESHIRE.--T. S. M. Trentham, not
out, 205.”
“We have it from a reliable source,” says the _Athletic News_, “that
the authorities at Old Trafford are making strenuous efforts to
induce Mr. T. S. M. Trentham, this year’s captain at Harrow, and
the youngest member of the famous brotherhood whose name he bears,
to qualify for Lancashire. As doubtless our readers are aware, the
authorities at Old Trafford have always been justly celebrated for
their generous appreciation and encouragement of the cricketing
talent of _other_ counties, and in the case of young Mr. Trentham
there is something peculiarly appropriate in the benevolence of their
present attitude, as it is rumoured that Mr. Trentham once had an
aunt who lived near Bootle.”
I could read no more. The _Sportsman_ dropped from my unheeding
hands, and I had just begun to whistle the opening bars of the “Dead
March,” when two brown boots and the lower parts of a pair of grey
flannel trousers wriggled from the lawn through the open window. They
were surmounted two seconds later by a straw hat, a straw-coloured
moustache, and an aquiline nose, which I identified as belonging to the
General Nuisance. He had an exquisitely neat brown paper parcel under
his arm, and a smile of fifty candle-power illuminating his classic
features. I was horrified to see it.
“You’re early this morning,” I said resignedly. “It wants a quarter to
eight yet. Have some breakfast?”
“Tha-anks,” he drawled, “but I’ve had my milk. I’ve called round to
bring you yours.”
As he spoke he removed the string from the parcel in the most leisurely
manner and disclosed a pile of carefully folded newspapers with names
pencilled on the corners. Having discovered mine, he handed it to me
with that air of benevolent condescension that head masters wear on
speech day.
“How nice of you!” I said. However, I’m afraid this irony was so
delicate that he didn’t feel it.
“My dear fellow, not at all,” he said. “There’s one for everybody. I’m
delivering ’em to the whole team, don’t you know.”
Needless to say, he had presented me with an immaculate copy of the
_Sportsman_. I picked up my own discarded sheet from under the table.
“Awf’ly obliged, old chap, but I’ve got one, thank you,” I said,
pleasantly.
“That’s lucky,” said he, “you can give one to your friends. Rather
pretty reading, isn’t it? Awf’ly decent set, Trenthams, Elphinstone,
etcetera.”
“Git!” I said, gazing round for a boot-jack or a poker, or something
equally likely to debase his physical beauty.
“Ta-ta then, see you later!”
To my infinite joy he appeared to be taking the hint. But he had only
just conducted his infernal smile to the right side of the window, when
he jerked it back again, and said:--
“Oh, I forgot! I say, Dimsdale, I ought to tell you this. I rather
think Billy _was_ drunk last night. His eyes are as red as a ferret’s
this morning, and his housekeeper told me in confidence that when she
got up this morning and went to call him she found master’s umbrella in
bed and master sleeping in the umbrella-stand.”
“No, don’t say that,” I gasped, with a sinking at the heart. Alas! we’d
only got two bowlers, and Billy was the one on whom we depended most.
“Fact!” said the General Nuisance cheerfully; “wouldn’t trouble you
with it if I thought it wasn’t true. Lawson drove up with the Doctor
as I came away. I implored our gentle secretary not to mourn, since a
few Seidlitzs and a stomach-pump can do a lot in a very little time.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but it is generally slow bowlers
who resort to intemperance, because as they’ve only got to lose their
perfect length to embitter the lives of others, their possibilities
become quite unbearable on a big occasion. At the M.C.C. match Lawson
sat beside him at lunch both days counting his liqueurs. Poor old
Lawson! I felt it my duty to assure him just now that it really took
very little to make Billy lose his length. I also took the liberty of
reminding him of what happened when he lost it once before, against
Emeriti,--
5 overs. 0 maidens. 51 runs. 0 wickets.
and Emeriti had got quite an ordinary side.”
Just as the muffineer arrived at the head of the General Nuisance,
the General Nuisance was mean enough to duck. This act enabled the
muffineer to crash through the plate-glass window.
“Timed that to a ‘T,’” said he. “Can see absolutely anything this
morning. Certain to book fifty if I once get in, which I take to be a
strong enough reason why an inscrutable Providence will cause us to
lose the toss and keep me in the field all day.”
“Hope you will be there,” said I savagely, “and I’d like to see you
taking long-field on both ends. And I hope you’ll drop a catch in front
of the ladies’ tent. And I hope when you come racing round the corner
to make that magnificent one-hand dive to save the four, the bally
thing’ll jump and hit you in the teeth. And if you do go in to bat I
hope you’ll be bowled neck and heels first ball.”
Ignoring this peroration he again appeared to be at the point of
withdrawing his hateful presence. But too well did I know the General
Nuisance to anticipate such a consummation. He merely seated himself
on the sill in an attitude that would enable him to cope with sudden
emergencies, and then said:--
“Oh, by the way, the youngest Gunter girl; you know, the little one
with the green eyes and the freckles--just got engaged they say.”
“Who to?” I said fiercely. The General Nuisance certainly plumbed the
depths of human fiendishness, but in conversation he had a command of
topics that were irresistible.
“Who to?” I said.
“One of the Trenthams,” he smiled. “Ta-ta! See you ten-thirty.”
He was gone at last, and I had barely time to praise Heaven’s clemency
that this was even so, when William entered with the face of an
undertaker out of work.
“Clean gone, sir,” he said. “Abso-blooming-lutely! Looked high and low,
and Mrs. Jennings ain’t no notion.”
“Looked in the lining of the bag?”
“Everywhere,” said the miserable William.
“Well,” said I, “unless it’s found I don’t get a run to-day.”
“I can tell you, sir,” said William, “that I’d rather lose my
perquisites than that this should have ’appened at Little Clumpton _v._
Hickory. But there’s the Winchester, and the Magdalen, and the M.C.C.
Couldn’t you get some in one of them, sir?”
“Daren’t risk it,” I said, “not at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Yet,
let me see, hasn’t Mr. Thornhill one of the Authentics?”
“Why, Lor’ bless me, that he ’ave, sir!”
“Well, get your bike at once, give my compliments and kind regards to
Mr. Thornhill and tell him I’ve lost my Authentics and will he lend
me his. Explain that it’s Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and that I
can only get runs in the Authentics. It’s now eight-twenty, and it’s
eighteen miles to Mr. Thornhill’s place. Can you bring it to me by
eleven?”
“Well, sir, if I don’t, you’ll know I’ve burst a tyre.”
Within five minutes William was riding to Thornhill’s as if his life
depended on it, with the stable-boy to pace him.