I
"We ought not to have let him play," said Allingham, irritably. He was
standing beside Gregg in the pavilion.
"Well, he would insist," said the latter, laughing lightly, "and we're
at least entitled to put eleven men in the field. There he goes again!
That a six for certain."
Allingham watched the ball disappear, for the fourth time since the
Clockwork man started his innings, somewhere in the direction of a big
brewery that stood mid-way between the ground and the distant town. It
was an incredible hit. No one had ever achieved such colossal drives
in all the history of Great Wymering cricket. There was a certain
absurdity about the thing. Already the club had been obliged to supply
three extra balls, for it would have been useless to try and find those
that had been lifted so far beyond the ground.
"The man's a dangerous lunatic," asserted Allingham, who had not yet
overcome his original annoyance with the strange figure, whose sudden
advent had lost him his wicket. "It's uncanny, this sort of thing. You
can't call it cricket."
"Well, he's making runs, anyhow," rejoined Gregg, his eye falling upon
the score-board. "At this rate we shall stand a chance after all."
It was fortunate, perhaps, that the Great Wymering people took their
cricket rather seriously. Otherwise, they might have felt, as Doctor
Allingham already felt, that there was something impossible about the
Clockwork man's performance. He had walked out to the wicket amidst
comparative indifference. His peculiar gait might easily have been
attributed to sheer nervousness, and his appearance, without flannels,
provoked only a slight degree of merriment. When he arrived at the
wicket he paused and examined the stumps with great attention, as
though wondering what they were for; and it was quite a little while
before he arranged himself in the correct attitude before them. He
remained standing still, holding the bat awkwardly in the air, and no
amount of persuasion on the part of the umpire could induce him to take
centre or place his bat to the ground in the recognised fashion. He
offered no explanation for his eccentric behaviour, and the fact simply
had to be accepted.
The game restarted. Tanner, who had by this time taken eight wickets
for just under a hundred runs, put down a slow, tricky one. Everybody
agreed, in discussing the matter afterwards, that the Clockwork man
never shifted his position or moved a muscle until the ball pitched,
slightly to the off. Nobody seems to have seen exactly what happened,
but there was a sudden ear-piercing crack and a swoop of dust.
Some seconds elapsed before anyone realised that the ball had been
hit at all. It was the Clockwork man who drew attention to the fact
by gazing steadily upwards in the direction of the town. And then,
suddenly, everybody was straining their eyes in the same direction to
watch that little flying spot grow smaller and smaller until it seemed
to merge into space. (As a matter of fact, this particular ball was
discovered, three weeks later, lying in a disused yard three miles from
the cricket ground.)
There was a certain amount of applause, followed by an embarrassing
silence. Presently someone threw another ball out into the field, and
the game was resumed. But the Clockwork man treated Tanner's next
delivery, which was a fast one, in exactly the same manner. Again
nobody could say exactly what happened--for the action was swifter than
the quickest eye could follow--but the ball disappeared again, this
time in the direction of a fringe of poplars far away on the horizon.
Again there was a lull, but the applause this time was modified.
Another ball was supplied, and this also was dispatched with equal
force and in a third direction, almost unanimously decided by the now
bewildered spectators to be the flagstaff of the church that stood in
the middle of the High Street, Great Wymering.
By this time a certain sense of panic was beginning to be displayed by
the restless attitudes of the fielders; and the spectators, instead
of leaning against the barriers, stood about in groups discussing the
most extraordinary cricketing event of their lives. There was much head
shaking and harking back to precedent among the old cronies present,
but it was generally agreed that such hitting was abnormal. Indeed, it
was something outside the pale of cricket altogether.
"If everybody was to start 'itting like that," pronounced Samuel Bynes,
a local expert, "there wouldn't be no sense in cricket. It ain't in the
game." And he spat decisively as though to emphasise his opinion that
such proficiency should be deplored rather than commended.
"You're right, Sam," said George Bynes, who had hit up many a century
for his town in bygone days, "tain't cricket. Else it's a fluke; the
man didn't ought to be allowed to hold bat in his hand. It's spoiling
other folks' sport."
Attention was diverted by something of minor importance, that showed
the Clockwork man in an altogether new and puzzling light. There had
been some delay over the procuring of the third ball, and when this was
forthcoming the over was called. The fielders changed about, but the
Clockwork man made no attempt to move and manifested no interest in
the immediate proceedings. He remained, with the bat in his hands, as
though waiting for another ball to be delivered.
"Seems as though 'e's only 'alf there," commented Mr. Bynes, noticing
this incident.
"Dreaming like," suggested his companion.
There was further delay. The bowler at the other end objected to the
position of the Clockwork man. He argued, reasonably enough, that the
non-participating batsman ought to stand quite clear of the wicket.
The umpire had to be consulted, and, as a result of his decision, the
Clockwork man was gently but firmly induced to move further away.
He then remained, in the same attitude, at the extreme edge of the
crease. His obtuseness was certainly remarkable, and comment among the
spectators now became general and a trifle heated.
"Play," said the umpire.
The batsman at the other end was a stout, rather plethoric individual.
He missed the first two balls, and the third struck him full in the
stomach. There was a sympathetic pause whilst Mr. Bumpus, who was well
known and respected in the town, rubbed this rather prominent part of
his anatomy to the accompaniment of fish-like gaspings and excusable
ejaculations. Mr. Bumpus was middle-aged and bald as well as corpulent,
and although he did his best to endure the mishap with sportsman-like
stoicism, the dismay written upon his perspiring features was certainly
an excitant to mirth. Some of the fielders turned their heads for a few
moments as though to spare themselves a difficult ordeal; but on the
whole there was discreet silence.
It was for this reason, perhaps, that the action of the Clockwork
man was all the more noticeable. To this day, not one of the persons
present is certain as to whether or not this eccentric individual
actually did laugh; but everybody is sure that such was his intention.
There issued from his mouth, without a moment's warning, a series
of harsh, metallic explosions, loud enough to be heard all over the
ground. One compared the noise to the ringing of bells hopelessly
cracked and out of tune. Others described it as being similar to the
sound produced by some person passing a stick swiftly across an iron
railing. There was that suggestion of rattling, of the impingement
of one hard thing against another, or the clapping together of steel
plates. It was a horrible, discordant sound, brassy and resonant,
varied between the louder outbursts by a sort of whirring and humming.
Those who ventured to look at the Clockwork man's face during this
extraordinary performance said that there was little change of
expression. His mouth had opened slightly, but the laugh, if indeed
it could be described as anything but a lugubrious travesty of human
mirth, seemed to proceed from far down within him. And then the hideous
clamour stopped as abruptly as it began. The Clockwork man had not
altered his position during the proceedings; but Arthur Withers, who
was watching him with feverish intensity from the pavilion, fancied
that his ears flapped twice just after the noise had subsided.
It was an unpleasant episode, but fortunately the object of such
misplaced and ugly hilarity scarcely seemed to notice the outrage. Mr.
Bumpus was not lacking in courage. After a few more groans and sighs,
and a final rubbing of that part of him that had been injured, he
placed himself in preparation to receive the next ball. The spectators
loudly applauded him, and the bowler, perhaps unwilling to risk
another misadventure, moderated his delivery. Mr. Bumpus struck the
ball lightly, and it sped away through the slips. A fielder darted
after it, but there was ample time for a run. "Come on!" shouted Mr.
Bumpus, and started to puff and blow his way down the pitch.
But the Clockwork man paid not the slightest heed to the command. He
remained, statuesque, a figure of gross indifference. Mr. Bumpus pulled
himself up sharply, mid-way between the two wickets; his red face was a
study in bewilderment. He slid a few paces, cast one imploring glance
in the direction of the Clockwork man, and then rushed desperately back
to his own crease. But he was too late; his wicket had been put down.
Etiquette plays an important part in the noble game of cricket. It may
be bad form to refuse an obvious run; but to complain of your partner
in public is still worse. Besides, Mr. Bumpus was too aghast for
speech, and his stomach still pained him. He walked very slowly and
with great dignity back to the pavilion, and his annoyance was no doubt
amply soothed by the loud cheers that greeted his return. Gregg came
out to meet him, with a rather shamefaced smile upon his features.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, "our recruit seems to be a little awkward. I
don't think he quite understands."
"He can hit," said Mr. Bumpus, mopping his brow, "but he's certainly an
eccentric sort of individual. I called to him to run, and apparently he
did not or _would_ not hear me."
Gregg caught hold of Arthur Withers, who was just going out to bat.
"Look here," he said, "just tell our friend that he must run. I don't
think he quite grasps the situation."
"No," said Arthur, slowly, "I don't think he does. He's rather a
peculiar sort of person. I--I--spoke to him. He--he--says he's a
clockwork man."
"Oh," said Gregg, and his face became blank. "Anyhow, just tell him
that he must run when he's called."
Arthur walked out to the wicket. His usual knee-shaking seemed less
pronounced, and he felt more anxious about the Clockwork man than
about himself. He paused as he drew near to him, and whispered in an
ear--rather fearfully, for he dreaded a recurrence of the ear-flapping
business. "The captain says will you run, please, when you're asked."
The Clockwork man turned his head slightly to the right, and his mouth
opened very wide. But he said nothing.
"You have to run," repeated Arthur, in louder tones.
The other flapped an ear. Arthur hastened away. Nothing was worth while
risking an exhibition in public such as he had witnessed in comparative
seclusion. He supposed there was something about the Clockwork man
really phenomenal, something that was beyond his own rather limited
powers of comprehension. Perhaps cleverer people than himself might
understand what was the matter with this queer being. He couldn't.
He took his place at the wicket. The first ball was an easy one,
and he managed to hit it fair and square to mid-on. Scarcely hoping
for response, he called to the Clockwork man, and began to run. To
his immense astonishment, the latter passed him half-way down the
pitch, his legs jumping from side to side, his arms swinging round
irresponsibly. It might be said that his run was merely an exaggeration
of his walk. Arthur dumped his bat down quickly, and turned. As he
looked up, on the return journey, he was puzzled by the fact that there
was no sign of his partner. He paused and looked around him.
There had been an outburst of derisive cheering when the Clockwork
man actually commenced to run, but this now swelled up into a roar of
merriment. And then Arthur saw what had happened. The Clockwork man had
not stopped at the opposite wicket. He had run straight on, past the
wicket-keeper, past the fielders, and at the moment when Arthur spotted
him he was making straight for the white sheet at the back of the
ground. No wonder the crowd laughed! It was so utterly absurd; and the
Clockwork man ran as though nothing could stop him, as though, indeed,
he had been wound up and was without power to check his own ridiculous
progress. The next moment he collided with the sheet; but even this
could only prevent him from going further. His legs continued to work
rapidly with the action of running, whilst his body billowed into the
sagging sheet.
The spectators gave themselves up wholly to the fun. It must have
seemed to them that this extraordinary cricketer was also gifted with
a sense of humour, however eccentric; and that his nonsensical action
was intended by way of retaliation for the ironic cheers that had
greeted his running at all. Nobody, except Arthur Withers, realised
that the Clockwork man run thus far because for some reason he had
been unable to stop himself. It may be remarked here that many of
the Clockwork man's subsequent performances had this same accidental
air of humour; and that even his most grotesque attitudes gave the
observer an impression of some wild practical joke. He was so far
human, in appearance and manner, in spite of those peculiar internal
arrangements, which will be dealt with later, that his actions produced
an instantaneous appeal to the comic instinct; and in laughing at him
people forgot to take him seriously.
But Arthur Withers, still feeling a certain sense of duty towards that
helpless figure battening himself against the sheet, ran up to him.
He decided that it would be useless to try and explain matters. The
Clockwork man was obviously quite irresponsible. Arthur laid his hands
on his shoulders and turned him round, much in the way that a child
turns a mechanical toy after it has come to rest. Thus released, the
running figure proceeded back towards the wicket, followed close at
heels by Arthur, who hoped, by means of a push here and a shove there,
to guide him back to the pavilion and so out of harm's way.
But in this attempt he was unexpectedly thwarted. The Clockwork man
recovered himself; he ran straight back to the wicket and then stopped
dead. The umpire was in the act of replacing the bails, for the wicket
had been put down, and, fast as this eccentric cricketer had run in
the first place, he had not been quick enough to reach the crease in
time. By all the rules of the game, and beyond the shadow of doubt, he
had been "run out." He now regarded the stumps meditatively, with a
finger jerked swiftly against his nose, as though recognising a former
state of consciousness. And then, with a swift movement, he took up his
position in readiness to receive the ball.
This was too much for the equanimity of the spectators. Shout after
shout volleyed along the line of the hurdles. The calm deliberateness
of the Clockwork man, in so reinstating himself, fairly crowned all
his previous exhibitions. And the fact that he took no notice of the
merriment at his expense, but simply waited for something to happen,
permitted the utmost license. The crowd rocked itself in unrestrained
hilarity.
But a second later there was stony silence. For the thing that happened
next was as unexpected as it was startling. Nobody, save perhaps Dr.
Allingham, anticipated that the Clockwork man was capable of adding
violence to eccentricity; he looked harmless enough. But apparently
there lurked a dæmonic temper behind those bland, meaningless features.
The thing happened in a trice; and all that followed occupied but a few
catastrophic seconds. The umpire had stepped up to the Clockwork man in
order to explain to him that he was expected to retire from the wicket.
Not hearing any coherent reply, he emphasised his request by placing
a hand suggestively on the other's shoulder. Instantly, something
blade-like flashed in the stammering air, a loud thwack broke upon the
silence, and the unfortunate umpire lay prostrate. He had gone down
like a log of wood.
Pandemonium ensued. The scene of quiet play was transformed into a
miniature battle-field. The fielders rushed in a body at the Clockwork
man, only to go down one after the other, like so many ninepins. They
lay, stunned and motionless. The Clockwork man spun round like a
teetotum, his bat flashing in the sun, whilst the flannelled figures
flying from all parts of the field approached him, only to be sent
reeling and staggering to earth. Some dodged for a moment only to
be caught on the rebound. Dust flew up, and to add to the whirl and
confusion the unearthly noise that had so startled Arthur Withers broke
out again, with terrific force, like the engine of a powerful motor
suddenly started.
"I told you he was mad!" shouted Allingham, as he and Gregg leapt
through the aperture of the pavilion and dashed to the rescue.
But the Clockwork man suddenly seemed panic-stricken. Just for one
moment he surveyed the prostrate figures lying about on the grass like
so many sacks. Then he sent the bat flying in the direction of the
pavilion and rushed straight for the barrier of hurdles.
The spectators fled with one accord. Allingham and Gregg doubled up
in hot pursuit. Arthur Withers, who had mustered the wit to fall down
rather than to be knocked down, picked himself up quickly and joined
them.
"It's alright," he gasped, "He--he--won't be able to climb the hurdles."
But there was no accounting for the activities of the Clockwork man.
At a distance of about a yard from the barrier his whole body took off
from the ground, and he literally floated in space over the obstacle.
It was not jumping; it was more like flying. He landed lightly upon his
feet, without the least difficulty; and, before the onlookers could
recover from their amazement, this extraordinary personage had shot
like a catapult, straight up the path along which he had travelled
so precariously half an hour before. In a few seconds his diminutive
figure passed into the horizon, leaving a faint trail of dust and the
dying echo of that appalling noise.
"My God," exclaimed Gregg, grasping a hurdle to steady himself, "It's
it's--incredible."
Allingham couldn't say a word. He stood there panting and swallowing
quickly. Arthur Withers caught up to them.
"He--he--goes by machinery, sir. He's a clockwork man."
"Don't be a damned fool," the doctor burst out, "you're talking through
your hat."
Gregg was listening very acutely.
"But it _is so_," protested Arthur. "You didn't see him as I did. He
was like nothing on earth--and then he began to work. Just like a motor
starting. And then that noise began. I'm sure there's something inside
him, something that goes wrong sometimes."
He was still a little sorry for the Clockwork man.
"That's my conviction," he gasped out, too excited and breathless for
further speech.
"I think," said Gregg, with curious calmness, "I think we had better
warn the police. He's likely to be dangerous."