LITTLE CLUMPTON _v._ HICKORY
I CAME down to the ground at a little after ten. The match was to
begin at eleven, sharp. The only sights of interest on my arrival were
the ground-man marking out the crease, and the Worry at the nets in a
brand-new outfit. The “pro” and three small boys were striving to knock
a shilling off his middle.
“You’re touching ’em pretty this morning, Daunton,” said I, out of pure
excellence of heart. I wished him to keep up his pecker.
“Think so?” he said nervously. “I’ve had an awful bad night, and I
believe there’s something the matter with my wrist. I wish I wasn’t
playing.”
The Worry’s life was a burden to him on match days. When he went in to
bat he issued from the pavilion with a wild eye and a haggard mien,
and a rooted idea that he was bound to be bowled first ball. This he
invariably played forward to, as the strain on his nervous system was
so severe that it was a physical impossibility for him to wait and
receive it in his crease. He counted every run he got, and, if there
was the faintest doubt about a snick, he would say, “I hope you noticed
that I touched that, umpire.”
The crowd was already beginning to assemble. Vehicles and pedestrians
were flocking in from twenty miles around. Hickory was a neighbouring
village, only seven miles distant, but the rivalry was so keen that
the local public-houses did no trade while the great match was in
progress. It always had been so, and always would be. Even in the early
forties Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory had become historical. Alfred
Mynn and Fuller Pilch had actually graced the annual encounter in the
Park. There was only one match a season; two would have been more than
human endurance could have borne; and the Park, which generations of
its noble owners had been very proud to lend for this nation-shaking
function, was the only cricket-ground in the vicinity that could hope
to accommodate the rival partisans. It might have been that once on a
time the ’Varsity match had been played on other turf than Lord’s; but
the Park was the only spot in England that had ever had the privilege
of witnessing Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory on its velvet sward. Let
kings depart and empires perish, but this always had been so and always
would be!
To appear at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory was not the lot of common
men. Only the elect could hope to do so. To take wickets or make a
score at this encounter was to become a classic in one’s lifetime.
There were hoary veterans round about, whom the uninitiated might
take to be mouldering mediocrities, but no--“see t’ owd gaffer theer?
well, ’e wor a ’56 man; and t’ littlin theer across the rowad ’e
wor ’59”--which being interpreted means that 1856 and 1859 were the
dates of their distinction. Therefore do not let the young think, as
unhappily they do just now, that they must write a book to become
immortal. Why will not a few thousands of these seekers after fame,
these budding novelists and early poets, take to cricket? For is it
not more honourable, and certainly more glorious, to make a century at
Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and make half a shire shout your praise,
than to translate Omar Kháyyám and become a nuisance to posterity?
Presently I beheld a sight that nearly brought the tears into my eyes.
The Optimist and the Pessimist were coming arm-in-arm across the grass.
The lion lay down with the lamb at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. The
Secretary walked alone with looks and words for none. He was so
positively dangerous that the General Nuisance forbore to ask him what
bowling we had got.
Having changed, I was sallying forth from the pavilion in the
possession of bat and ball for the purpose of “having a knock” when a
sudden palpitation made the crowd vibrate.
“’Ere’s Hickory! Good owd Hickory!”
A solid English-throated cheer announced that the enemy were in sight.
A thrill ran through me as I gazed in the direction of their coming,
for certainly the appearance of such a celebrated side was something
to be seen. It was. A four-in-hand came bumping along the stretch
of uneven meadow at a clipping pace. And to my indignant horror and
bewilderment I saw that the reins were commanded by a person that wore
nice white cuffs and a brown holland blouse. Conceive the cream of
English cricket with their legs tucked up on the top of that rocking,
creaking, jumping, jolting coach at the mercy of a person in a brown
holland blouse! It was a thing that required to be very clearly seen
before it could be accepted. In agony of mind I rubbed my eyes and
looked more intently at the furiously on-coming vehicle. Never a doubt
its pace was reckless, criminally reckless, considering the priceless
freight it bore.
“What do you think of that?” I cried, turning in my distress to the
man beside me. He happened to be the Ancient, so-called, because of
his thoughtful air and his supernatural wisdom. “Just look at the
confounded thing, I’m certain that girl’ll have it over. Gad! did you
see her dodge that ditch by about three inches? Those men must be
perfect fools! Why doesn’t that idiot beside her lend a hand? But some
of these women are steep enough for anything. That girl ought to be
talked to.”
“Well, suppose you do the talking,” said the Ancient, with his most
reflective air. Then, as the drag lurched into our midst, wheels and
harness grunting, the glossy animals in a lather; and they were drawn
up with a sure hand in front of the pavilion while a cheering and
gaping throng pressed about the wheels to impede the great men in their
descent, the Ancient pensively continued, “Tell you what, my boy, I
should rather like the chance of talking to that young person.”
To do her justice, she was certainly a source of comfort to the eye.
When she yielded the reins and stood up on the footboard she had that
air of simple resolution that is the source of England’s pride.
She was so tall and trim and strong, there was such a decision in her
curves that her brown holland with white cuffs and collar, her Zingari
tie, and hat-band of the same red and yellow brilliance round a straw,
with heavy coils of hair of a proper country fawn-colour beneath, lent
her that look of candid capability that nature generally reserves for
cricketers of the highest order. I never gave the cracks from Hickory
a second thought. Everything about her was so clean, so cool, so
absolute, that before she had left the box I had quite convinced myself
that whoever she might be she was a young person whose habit was to do
things.
“Catch!” she cried, and threw down the Hickory score-book.
She then superintended the unlading of the coach roof of its pile of
brown and battered cricket bags, whilst the crowd pressed nearer to
the wheels and evinced the liveliest concern as to “which is A. H.?
And who’s the tall chap? And who’s the Parson? And don’t he look a
funny little cuss? And who’s the very tall chap? ’Im wi’ the big ’ead?
H. C. o’ course. And who’s the lamp-post? And that theer fleshy bloke
who’d got three boys to carry his bag, a fourth to carry his hat, and
a fifth his newspaper, must be Carteret, because it said in the _Daily
Chronicle_ that he was the fattest short-slip in England and took life
easily.” Of such are fame’s penalties!
The young person in brown holland having made it her business to see
that the bags were bundled down with the necessary degree of violence,
said: “I think you men had better go and change _immediately_. I’ll
have a look at the wicket.”
She swung down from the step before any of the men below could lend a
hand, and, while the whole eleven moved towards the pavilion with their
luggage, the young person in brown holland made her way through the
throng with the confidence of a duchess at a charity bazaar, and strode
across the grass without the least suspicion of the Meredithian “swim.”
And it was quite a coincidence that the Ancient and myself should
choose a spot as near the wicket as the unwritten laws allowed, for the
purpose of having a little practice.
The ground-man was lingering over the last touches to his masterpiece
when the young person in brown holland actually set foot on the sacred
earth that the general public is not even permitted to approach. The
face of the ground-man was well worth looking at. When the feelings
of a great artist are outraged it is a very painful sight. Alas, poor
Wiggles! the agony of his countenance no pen could depict. He lifted up
his head and emitted a slow-drawn growl. This had no effect whatever.
Indeed, an instant later, this most audacious individual had the
incredible effrontery to bring down a pretty solid brown boot, by no
means of the “little mice” type either, twice upon the pitch itself. It
was more than a merely human ground-man could endure.
“Begging pardon, miss,” said he, “but are you aware, miss, that this
here is a--a _wicket_?”
“Well, my dear man,” said the person thus addressed, “do you suppose I
thought it was a bunker?”
The Ancient and I agreed that this was an achievement. For a member
of the general public to retort effectually on a real live ground-man
was as great a feat as to look at the Chinese Emperor. The face of
Wiggles was a study. Meanwhile, the lady having sufficiently tried the
adamantine surface with her boot, bent down and pressed on it with her
thumb. A feather would have slain the miserable Wiggles at that moment.
Was it possible that any human creature, let alone the sex, could
presume to test, and criticise, and doubt his masterpiece in this way!
But worse was coming. Apparently the young person in brown holland was
determined to satisfy herself in regard to every detail.
“Ground-man,” she said, “has this turf any tendency to crumble?”
“No, it ain’t,” said the ground-man savagely.
Having laid her doubts in this direction, she proceeded to view the
wicket lengthwise. Setting her alert tanned face in a precise line with
the stumps, she said:--
“Ground-man, are you sure that these sticks are _quite_ plumb!”
“If they ain’t it’s the fust time i’ thirty yeer.”
“But surely the leg peg your end wants pulling out a bit. That’ll do.
It’s all right now.”
When the utterly demoralised Wiggles discovered that he had
unconsciously obeyed the behests of the young person in brown holland,
I never saw a man who more regretted his own inability to kick himself.
“Well, ground-man,” she said slowly and reflectively, “I think this
wicket is good enough for a Test Match. Here’s a shilling for you.”
The hesitation of Wiggles was really painful. A shilling is a shilling
always, but how could a self-respecting ground-man accept one in these
humiliating circumstances? His views on political economy, however,
reconciled his outraged feelings to this added insult. He took the
shilling with a defiant air.
“And, ground-man,” she said, “mind that I tip you for every individual
century that is got for Hickory to-day.”
“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Wiggles, with a groan. He was Little
Clumpton to the marrow. The poor wretch cast a despairing glance at
the Ancient and myself, while we practised in the most assiduous manner.
Suddenly a peal of laughter came from the young person in brown
holland. It seemed that the sight-board in front of a dark fringe of
trees behind the bowler’s arm had attracted her polite attention.
“Charlie’s arm’ll be over that,” she cried delightedly. “We’ll put him
on that end.”
“Ancient,” said I, “do you hear what that--that girl’s saying? Why
doesn’t that idiot Wiggles order her off the field? If she stops there
much longer we’re a beaten team.”
Just then she turned her attention to us engaged in practice. Now the
sight of this--this person who was so busily occupied in laying traps
and pitfalls for Little Clumpton’s overthrow enraged me to that degree
that I determined to get rid of her by uncompromising methods. She
stood in the exact line of my crack to cover.
“Ancient,” I said, “just chuck up a nice half-volley on the off, and
I’ll make this place a bit too hot for that young person in brown
holland.”
The Ancient lost no time in becoming accessory before the fact, and,
throwing my leg across, I put in every ounce I’d got.
“Oh, goo--od stroke! goo--od stroke!” cried our intended victim in a
very joyful voice. And we had the privilege of witnessing the young
person we were conspiring to remove calmly place her feet and hands
together, as per Steel and Lyttelton, and field and return that red-hot
drive in the neatest, cleanest, county style.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said I.
“If she’s fielding cover for them,” said the Ancient grimly,
“somebody’ll be run out. We’d better advise Lennox and Jack Comfort not
to try to steal ’em. I shan’t go for short ’uns, I can tell you.”
The Ancient owed his eminence to the fact that no detail was too mean
for his capacious mind. Besides, he was as strenuous, serious, and
self-centred as a novelist with a circulation of a hundred thousand
copies.
Much to the relief of Wiggles and ourselves, the sight of a perfect
broad-shouldered giant of a fellow issuing from the pavilion at this
moment, clad in flannels, bat in hand, lured the young person in brown
holland from her very inconvenient and highly dangerous station at the
wicket.
“Hi, Archie, got a ball?” she cried at the pitch of a splendid pair of
lungs.
“Hullo, Grace!” replied the giant in a voice by no means the inferior
of her own. “You’re just the very chap. I want half a dozen down.
Let’s cut across there to the nets. Here you are. Look out!”
Thereon the giant hurled a ball a terrific height into the eye of the
sun. It seemed so perilously like descending on our heads that poor
Wiggles put up his hands and began to run for his life. Not so the
young person in brown holland. She stepped two or three yards backward,
moved a little to one side, shaded her eyes a moment from the glare to
sight the catch, and next instant had the leather tucked beautifully
under her chin in a manner worthy of a G. J. Mordaunt.
“Wiggles,” said I, “do you happen to know who that lady is?”
“Wish I did, sir,” said Wiggles feebly. “She’s a terror, ain’t she?
But I hope she don’t come here too often. I reckon she’s a Trentham,
she is. That wor A. H. what just come out. Lord, and just look at that
theer gal a bowlin’ at ’un. She sets ’un back on his sticks an’ all.”
We turned our attention to the nets, and beheld her bowling slow
hanging length balls to A. H. Trentham, almost a facsimile of Alfred
Shaw.
“I tell you, Dimsdale,” said the Ancient, “if this is what lovely
woman’s coming to, it’s high time some of us crocks took to golf. I
wonder if Miss Grace plays for M.C.C. I notice she’s got their colours
on. I’ve always contended that they never look so well as when worn by
W. G., but I’m hanged if this new Grace don’t give the Old Man points.”