There was another person present at the cricket match to whom the
appearance of the strange figure upon the hill seemed an unusual
circumstance, only in his case it provided rather an agreeable
diversion than an irritating disturbance. It had been something to
look at, and much more interesting than cricket. All the afternoon
Arthur Withers had been lying in the long grass, chewing bits of it
at intervals and hoping against hope that something would happen to
prevent his having to go out to the pitch and make a fool of himself.
He knew perfectly well that Tanner, the demon bowler of the opposing
team, would get him out first ball. He might linger at the seat of
operations whilst one or two byes were run; but there were few quests
more unwarranted and hopeless than that excursion, duly padded and
gloved, to the scene of instant disaster. He dreaded the unnecessary
trouble he was bound to give, the waiting while he walked with shaking
knees to the wicket; the careful assistance of the umpire in finding
centre for him; all the ceremony of cricket rehearsed for his special
and quite undeserved benefit. And afterwards he would be put to field
where there was a lot of running to do, and only dead balls to pick up.
Of course, he wasn't funking; that wouldn't be cricket. But he had been
very miserable. He sometimes wondered why he paid a subscription in
order to take part in a game that cost him such agony of mind to play.
But it was the privilege that mattered as much as anything. Just to be
allowed to play.
Arthur was accustomed to be allowed to do things. He accepted his fate
with a broad grin and a determination to do whatever was cricket in
life. Everybody in Great Wymering knew that he was a bit of a fool,
and rather simple. They knew that his career at the bank had been
one wild story of mistakes and narrow escapes from dismissal. But
even that didn't really matter. Things happened to him just as much
as to other and more efficient individuals, little odd circumstances
that made the rest of life curiously unimportant by comparison. Every
day, for example, something humorous occurred in life, something that
obliterated all the worries, something worth waking up in the middle of
the night in order to laugh at it again. That was why the appearance of
the odd-looking figure had been so welcome to him. It was distinctly
amusing. It made him forget his fears. Like all funny things or
happenings, it made you for the moment impersonal.
He was so interested that presently he got up and wandered along the
line of hurdles towards the spot where the strange figure had come
to rest. It had not moved at all, and this fact added astonishment
to curiosity. It clung desperately to the barrier, as though glad to
have got there. Its attitude was awkward in the extreme, hunched up,
ill-adjusted, but it made no attempt to achieve comfort. Further
along, little groups of spectators were leaning against the barrier in
nearly similar positions, smoking pipes, fidgeting and watching the
game intently. But the strange figure was not doing anything at all,
and if he looked at the players it was with an unnatural degree of
intense observation. Arthur walked slowly along, wondering how close he
could get to his objective without appearing rude. But, somehow, he did
not think this difficulty would arise. There was something singularly
forlorn and wretched about this curious individual, a suggestion of
inconsequence. Arthur could have sworn that he was homeless and had
no purpose or occupation. He was not in the picture of life, but
something blobbed on by accident. Other people gave some sharp hint by
their manner or deportment that they belonged to some roughly defined
class. You could guess something about them. But this extraordinary
personage, who had emerged so suddenly from the line of the sky and
streaked aimlessly across the landscape, bore not even the vaguest
marks of homely origin. He had staggered along the path, not with
the recognisable gait of a drunken man, but with a sort of desperate
decision, as though convinced in his mind that the path he was treading
was really only a thin plank stretched from heaven to earth upon which
he had been obliged to balance himself. And now he was hanging upon
the hurdle, and it was just as though someone had thrown a great piece
of clay there, and with a few deft strokes shaped it into the vague
likeness of a man.