Record Breaking
“POOR old Grace!” said the little parson. “Quite a martyr to public
duty, isn’t she? I didn’t think she’d go.”
“And she wouldn’t, that’s a moral,” said her brother, “had it been
anybody but the Guv. Her consideration for the Guv is something
beautiful. ’Wish she’d extend it to some other members of her family.”
“There’s none of ’em can grumble,” said the little parson warmly.
“She’s a mother to the lot. ’Gives you milk gruel when you’re sick.
’Won’t have you stay out late. ’Sends you in strict training before the
Gentlemen and Players. ’Always up at Lords to give you the privilege
of her advice. ’Coaches the lot of you like a pro. ’Dots your I’s
and crosses your T’s for you, and puts your eyes and limbs together
generally. Surely it isn’t reasonable to expect more from a sister; but
some men want so thundering much. Tell you what, my boy, if there’d
been no Grace to restrict your spiritual needs and minister to your
temporal, Cambridge hadn’t cut up Oxford as they did, and Middlesex
hadn’t been champion county. Grace is a trump!”
The little parson’s heat was such that he was compelled to wipe his
forehead.
“Oh, I don’t deny that Grace has her points,” said that young person’s
brother.
“And no end of a fine girl is Grace,” said the little parson, quite at
the mercy of his theme. “Real A 1, and looks it. And there’s nobody to
deny it either.”
“’Never could see it myself,” drawled Charlie, who in his fraternal
capacity was of course at no pains to conceal his boredom. “’Can’t see
where her looks come in at all.”
“If she were some other fellow’s sister, it’s likely that you might,”
said I.
Perhaps it was that my tone conveyed more than I was aware of, for the
great bowler looked at me with a shrewdly humorous countenance that
rather reminded me of Robert Abel’s.
“Hullo, Toddles!” he observed. “What price that? ’Nother victim. I’m
getting to recognise the symptoms straight away. But, Dimsdale, you be
advised. The Rectory positively reeks of slaughtered innocence. Two
refused last week. Now, don’t you come and play the goat.”
“Wonder who it will be in the end?” asked the poor dear Optimist to
cover my retreat. But his own effort was a perfect masterpiece of
self-repression.
“Perhaps the noble Earl,” said the little parson. “He’s been right over
his ears this two years. Poor old Dick!”
“No blooming fear!” said Miss Grace’s brother, with a profound
conviction that both delighted and depressed the poor old Optimist and
the miserable me. “Dick’s a rank outsider. ’Hasn’t a thousand-to-one
chance. Last time he tried it on he sank so low as to tell her what his
income was. ‘Now, look here, Dick,’ said she, ‘I don’t care a straw
about your income; what’s your batting average?’ Fact! Told it to the
’Varsity, and they put it in _The Granta_. And the joke is, that Dick
is the most horrible muff you ever saw. ’Couldn’t get a run to save his
life. Well, he sent for Attewell and Brockwell to coach him all the
spring. But he’s not yet at the top of the first-class averages.”
“Well, _who_ will it be?” I asked recklessly.
“Ask another,” said Charlie, “for I’m hanged if I know. Ranji in his
best year might have had a look in, and I think she’d take the Old Man
even now. Jacker, and Stoddy, and Archie McLaren, and that crush, all
just miss it.”
“All just miss it?” I said weakly.
“All just miss it,” said Charlie magisterially. “If Sammy Woods’s heart
had stood the strain, his bowling might have put him in the running,
because she says that, whereas batsmen are a common growth, bowlers
come from heaven.”
As the best bowler in England quoted this opinion, the twinkle in his
eye was marvellous.
“But Jack Mason and Charlie Fry have been going pretty strong of late,”
said the little parson.
“They’ll have to be regular Sandows before they’ll fill her eye,” said
Grace’s brother, “she’s that mighty hypercritical. At least, that’s
what a literary Johnny called her. He kept rolling Greek up to her, and
comparing her to Nausicaa. She asked him whether Nausicaa was a batsman
or a bowler, as she knew for a fact that his name was not in Wisden.
But when the silly owl began to simplify himself, he wished he hadn’t
spoke. She knocked three fours and two sixes off him--all in one over.
By crum! didn’t she make hay! As for Jack Mason, he’s got a blind sort
o’ shove behind point off a rising ball that she don’t approve of,
whilst Charlie Fry’s bowling action is so darned ugly that I don’t much
fancy _him_.”
“Second bell,” said the little parson. “We’d better cut.”
“Yes, curse it,” said the great bowler with a groan. “’Got to be
rolling ’em up all the afternoon at ninety in the shade. Wicket
concrete, and two men going as they please. Bowlers _have_ to come from
heaven, I say, or they’d simply kick. ’Wants a blooming archangel to be
a bowler. Poor devils! What _are_ the sins of their fathers that some
men should be born bowlers?”
“Evolution teaches us,” said the little parson with resonant solemnity,
“that when a man’s forbears have been for generations in the habit of
fielding really bad, dropping catches, slow pick-up, stopping ’em with
their boot, wild returns, fumbling, failing to back up, real downright
infernal blood-coloured idleness, and so forth--that poor bloke is
likely to be born a bowler. Nature will avenge itself, you know.”
“’Must have been several Keys and Martin Hawkes in our family, then,
at one time or another,” said Charlie. Here however a ray of hope came
to him. “Of course,” said he, “your men’ll declare when they get about
three hundred.”
“Well, what would you do,” said I, “if you’d not got a ha’porth o’
bowling, against a batting side like Hickory’s?”
“Cert’nly declare,” said the bowler with wonderful conviction. “Great
folly if you don’t. Always the unexpected that happens at cricket,
don’t you know. ’Might absolutely scuttle us as our men’ll be tired as
the Ten blooming Tribes, and pretty well as sick.”
“Well,” said I, “I daresay we shall declare--at half-past six.”
As the umpires were already out, there was no time left in which the
case might be considered in all its aspects. It was a memorable sight
when Hickory took the field two minutes later. The assembly was still
greater than before. Little Clumpton, always warm favourites, since
they relied on purely local men, had had the might of their achievement
noised abroad. 165 for one wicket against Hickory’s formidable side was
a morning’s work that had sent the majority of those present into the
seventh heaven of enthusiasm.
Would Halliday get his hundred? Would Oldknow get his fifty? The cheers
that greeted these heroes when they came out of the pavilion was
something to cherish in the memory. They marched to the crease with
stately unconcern. Their apparent unconsciousness of the clamour they
had excited bordered on the sublime.
They began with extreme caution. The first few overs were a repetition
of their morning’s methods. There was no hurry for runs. The Ancient
cocked one under his leg for two, and the Captain stole a single. This
was the sum total of their scoring during the first ten minutes. Was
Halliday never going to get his hundred? He still required one. The
fielding was so keen and the bowling so straight that there still
seemed an element of uncertainty about it. This assumed a palpable
shape a moment later, when every man in the slips, point, the bowler,
the wicket-keeper, and heaven knows who besides, yelled at the pitch of
their lungs.
“How’s that?”
One could almost hear the great heart of the crowd beating through
the terribly portentous silence, that so respectfully awaited the
umpire’s verdict. The Optimist and I bent forward in our eagerness.
Could it be that Halliday was to have the cup dashed from his lips in
this manner? We despondently remembered that it was nine years since
a man had scored a century for Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Suddenly
the wicket-keeper threw down the ball with an impatient gesture. The
crisis was passed. Halliday was given in. He cut Charlie’s next ball
like a knife to the boundary. The scene that ensued is not to be
described. Veterans cheered; strong men adjourned for beer. The best
bowler in England to be collared to this tune! Little Clumpton 192 for
1. Halliday, not out, 103. And that this moment might be furnished with
every joy on which the great British Public dotes, a small boy in the
exuberance of the hour, thought well to fall from a tall tree wherein
he was perched, and delighted the populace by showing it how easily he
could break his collar-bone.
By cocking T. S. M. under his leg for another two, the Ancient
completed his fifty in the following over. Runs were beginning to come
as they pleased. Each batsman had satisfied his dreams. He could now
afford to take liberties and play to the crowd a bit. The Captain did;
the Ancient didn’t. It sums up the essential difference between the
two. The Captain began to talk to T. S. M. He leapt out and hit him
out of the ground for six. T. S. M. immediately went off, obedient,
doubtless, to a peremptory command that appeared to proceed from the
recesses of the ladies’ tent.
H. C., the lion-hearted, still continued to hurl them down at his best
pace. But it was manifestly not his day. The Captain, with his score at
112, was palpably missed at the wicket. Charlie also beat the Ancient
twice with successive balls, and occasionally knocked at that little
batsman’s ribs, no doubt to remind him that he was becoming a nuisance.
The Ancient, however, merely drew a long breath to assure himself that
it was not a compound fracture, blinked reflectively, took a new guard,
and continued as before. Two hundred went up, and still no separation.
Matters were growing ominous. Men were heard to inquire what was the
record score in Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, by whom was it made, and
when? It appeared that Hickory’s 503 for nine, in the pre-declaration
days of 1887, held it. Would it be eclipsed? Runs still came at their
own sweet will. With his score at 133, Halliday was missed off Charlie
for the second time by the unhappy wicket-keeper. The crowd grew
vigorous in its observations, and began to applaud the poor beggar
every time he handled the ball. Whenever the British Public swarm, they
invariably bring their manners with them.
The appearance of the “telegraph” was fast becoming a thing of beauty.
Ten followed ten without the slightest hesitation. The bowling began
to exhibit signs of getting used up. Charlie, still wicketless, had
gone off, whilst that crowning glory of a good side, its fielding, was
not taking itself quite so seriously as it did earlier in the day. But
neither the Optimist nor I were, perhaps, as whole-hearted as we might
have been in our enthusiasm. Our thoughts would keep straying to Miss
Grace. Why had we not been born county cricketers? It was bitterness
for me to reflect that I was already out for seven, and that my own
impetuosity had caused me to forfeit a chance for which so many sighed
in vain. As for the Optimist, he was conscious of certain rather
pronounced weaknesses in his style, which he was too old now to correct.
“Perhaps she hasn’t seen you bat, though?” said I consolingly.
“She ain’t, that’s certain,” said he wearily; “and if I’m lucky, she
never will!”
Miss Grace was now returning. We saw the assured figure of that young
person, the perfection of finely curved and elegant strength, emerge
from the interior of the ladies’ tent. Two _very_ young men stepped out
after her. Miss Grace turned round quickly, and although what she said
was brief, it was apparently to the point, as the pair of them went
back again without any delay whatever.
As Miss Grace came along the confines of the boundary to rejoin us,
swinging her gloves as she walked, an act of self-denial denoted that
here was no ordinary girl. The bowler was in the act of delivering,
and she was compelled to cross the screen at his end. The ordinary
girl would have been quite unable to resist the fascination of passing
behind the bowler’s arm, and thereby delaying the game until she had
gone on her way rejoicing in her crime. Miss Grace, however impossible
it may actually seem, waited while the bowler delivered the ball, and
afterwards ran across the screen as hard as she could in order to be
well clear of his arm by the time he was ready to send down the next.
The Optimist saw this also, and is prepared, I understand, to affirm
it on oath in the presence of witnesses. And the pair of us will no
doubt one day persuade the authorities at Newnham to recognise the
pious character of her act by erecting a stained glass window to her
honourable memory, even at the risk of causing that home of the higher
learning to build a chapel in which to put it.
She was soon up beside us again, a pretty healthy-looking anger seeming
to emphasise her charms.
“267 for one, Grace,” said the scorer; “Halliday not out, 169. Oldknow,
not out, 72. Oh, and another four; that makes Halliday 173. 270 up,
boy.”
“Awfully obliged to you, old chap,” said Miss Grace politely, as she
took the score-book from the Optimist. Her self-control really was
remarkable, but then women do claim to have more of it than men.
“What sort of a time did they give you in there?” asked the Optimist.
He always had a considerable temerity of his own. A thorough-going
optimist needs it, of course.
“Pretty bad,” said Miss Grace, with a distinctly blasé air. “One girl
said that Charlie must have an awful lot of enthusiasm, ’cause he kept
running about as hard as he could just for fun, while everybody else
was looking at him. Oh, some of ’em have a very pretty wit, I can tell
you. But if Hickory’s idea of humour is 271 for one, I wish they’d try
to be a bit serious sometimes, ’cause in my idea that sort o’ fun’s not
funny at all.”
“’Tis for us, I think,” said I.
“Very low form of amusement,” said Grace judicially.
Here the game afforded us a new diversion. The dauntless Halliday, whom
good fortune had now rendered absolutely reckless, lashed out for all
he was worth at a ball much too short to drive. It went spinning up a
dizzy height midway between mid-off and cover-point, in which positions
the youthful T. S. M. and Carteret were fielding respectively.
“At last!” sighed poor Miss Grace.
She was just a little bit premature, however. Being between them, both
men immediately started for the catch; then each observing the other
coming, both stopped together and stood stock still, each politely
saying “Your ball!” at the same moment, whilst the ball in question
dropped harmlessly to earth. The great British Public rivalled Swift
for pungency that minute. Poor Miss Grace, however, grew positively
white.
“I shall give ’em up,” she said.
There was soon a new matter to absorb the attention of the speculative.
Would Halliday make 200? It was a feat that had still to be
accomplished in Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. But as this is an age of
record-breaking, it was quite expected of our captain that he should do
something to maintain the traditions of his generation. He rose to the
occasion. Hitting out, without favour and without fear, he soon set all
doubts at rest. A strong off-drive gave him his second century.
“Have a cigarette, Miss Trentham,” said I, passing her the case. She
was not a young person who gave one the impression of being greatly
troubled with “nerves”; but it was plain that 309 for one wicket had
thrown the few she had into a state of open mutiny.
“Don’t smoke,” Miss Grace said.
“Should rather have thought you would,” said I mischievously.
“No,” said she with great sobriety; “it’s a bad thing for condition.
Besides, I’ve four brothers to consider. And when they do get stale, I
don’t like ’em to say it’s my fault. I always try to do the straight
thing by ’em, and set ’em a good example.”
“They invariably follow it, of course?”
“Well, no,” said Miss Grace reluctantly, “not always. But you know,”
she added quickly, “they’re really pretty decent sorts when you get to
know their little ways. If you feed ’em well and fetch their slippers
for ’em, and you let ’em have breakfast when they like, and you don’t
lecture ’em too much, you can get ’em to do almost anything. And if
Archie and Charlie have got anything big on, they’re just as good as
gold. Hullo, Charlie’s going on again. Why don’t he go on permanently?”