HOGSTEAD
It was a glorious week, and through Thursday and Friday Roland watched
in nervous anticipation every cloud that crossed the pale blue sky.
Sooner or later the weather must break, he felt; and it would be fatal
for his prospects if it rained now. It is miserable to sit in a pavilion
and watch the wicket slowly become a bog; cheeriness under such
conditions is anti-social. Mr. Marston would be unable to work up any
sympathy for him, and would remember him as “that fellow who came down
for the cricket match that was such a fiasco”--an unfortunate
association.
Everything went well, however. Roland traveled down on the Friday night,
and as he got out of the train at Hogstead station he saw the spire of
the church black against a green and scarlet sky. “With such a sky it
can hardly be wet to-morrow,” he said.
The Marstons were a rich family, and it was the first time Roland had
seen anything of the life of really wealthy people. He was met at the
station and was driven up through a long, curving drive to a Georgian
house surrounded by well-kept lawns. Marston received him in a large,
oak-paneled hall, and although at first Roland was a little embarrassed
by the attentions of the footman, who took his hat and coat and bag,
within five minutes he found himself completely at his ease, sitting in
a deep arm-chair discussing with Mr. Marston the prospects of a certain
young cricketer who had made his first appearance that summer at the
Oval.
Mr. Marston was a fine healthy man, in the autumn of life. The
enthusiasm of his early years had been spent in a bitter struggle to
build up his business and he had had very little time for amusement.
During the long hours at his desk and the long evenings with ledgers and
account-books piled before him he had looked forward to the days when he
would be able to delegate his authority and spend most of his time in
the country, within the sound of bat and ball. Having had little
coaching he was himself a poor performer; for which reason he was the
more kindly disposed to anyone who showed promise. It was a rule of his
estate that, winter as well as summer, every gardener, groom and servant
should spend ten minutes each morning bowling at the nets. He lived in
the hope that one day an under-gardener would be deemed worthy of
transportation to the county ground.
“My son tells me you are a great performer,” he said to Roland.
“Oh, no, sir; only very moderate. I did not get into the first XI. at
Fernhurst.”
“They had an awfully strong XI.,” interposed Marston. “And he had a
blooming good average for the second. Didn’t you make a century against
the town?”
Roland confessed that he had, but remarked that with such bowling it was
very hard to do anything else.
“Well, ten other people managed to,” said Marston.
“And a century is a century whoever makes it,” said his father, who had
never made as many as fifty in his life. “You’ve got to make a lot of
good shots to make a hundred.”
“At any rate,” said Marston, “I don’t mind betting he gets a few
to-morrow.”
And for half an hour they exchanged memories of the greatest of all
games.
Roland found his evening clothes neatly laid out on his bed when he went
up to change for dinner; and when he came down the whole family was
assembled in the drawing-room. There were Mrs. Marston, a large rather
plump woman of about fifty years old; her daughter Muriel, a small and
pretty girl, with her light hair scattered over her shoulders; and two
or three other members of the next day’s side. There was an intimate
atmosphere of comfort and well-being to which Roland was unaccustomed.
At home they had only one servant, and had to wait a good deal upon
themselves. He enjoyed the silent, unobtrusive methods of the two men
who waited on them. He never needed to ask for anything; as soon as he
had finished his bread another piece was offered him; his glass was
filled as it began to empty; and the conversation was like the
meal--calm, leisured, polished.
Roland sat next to Muriel and found her a delightful companion. She was
at an age when school and games filled her life completely. She told
Roland of a rag that they had perpetrated on their French mistress, and
he recounted her the exploits of one Foster, who used to dress up at
night, go down to the Eversham Arms, sing songs and afterwards pass
round the hat.
Roland had his doubts as to the existence of Foster; he had become at
Fernhurst one of those mythical creatures which every school
possesses--a fellow who took part in one or two amusing escapades, and
around whose name had accumulated the legends of many generations. His
story was worth telling, none the less.
After dinner they walked out into the garden, with the chill of the
autumn night in the air. It reminded Roland that his sojourn in that
warmly colored life was only temporary, and that outside it was the
cold, cheerless struggle for existence.
“It is so ripping this,” he said to Muriel, “and it is so rotten to
think that in a few weeks I shall be sitting down in front of a desk and
adding up figures.” He told her, though she was already acquainted with
the facts, of how he had left Fernhurst at the end of the term, and in a
few weeks would be going into a bank.
“Oh, how beastly,” she said. “I suppose you will have rotten short
holidays?”
“A fortnight a year.”
“I think it is a shame,” she said. “I am sure a boy like you ought to be
leading an open-air life somewhere.”
And that night, before he fell asleep, Roland thought wistfully of the
company he had met that day. It was marvelous how money smoothed
everything. It was the oil that made the cogs in the social machine
revolve; without it there was no rhythm or harmony, but only a broken,
jarring movement. Without money he felt life must be always in a degree
squalid. He remembered his own home and the numerous worries about small
accounts and small expenses; he knew how it had worn down the energy of
his father. He knew that such worries would never touch a girl like
Muriel. How easy and good-natured all these people were; they were
flowers that had been grown in a fertile soil. Everything depended upon
the soil in which one was planted; the finest plants would wither if
they grew far from the sunshine in a damp corner of a field.
Next day Roland awoke to a world heavy with a dripping golden mist, that
heralded a bright hot day. There had been a heavy dew, and after
breakfast they all walked down to the ground to look at the wicket.
“If we win the toss to-day, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston to his son, “I
think we had better put them in first. It is bound to play a bit
trickily for the first hour or so.”
There was no need for such subtlety, however, for the village won the
toss, and, as is the way with villagers, decided to go in first.
“Good,” said Mr. Marston, “and if we have not got eight of them out by
lunch I shall be very surprised.”
And, sure enough, eight of the village were out by lunch, but the score
had reached one hundred and five. This was largely due to three erratic
overs that had been sent down by an ecclesiastical student from Wells
who had bowled, perhaps in earnest of future compromise, on the leg
theory, with his field placed upon the off.
The local butcher had collected some thirty runs off these three overs,
and thirty runs in a village match when the whole score of a side does
not usually reach more than fifty or sixty is a serious consideration.
At lunch time Mr. Marston was most apologetic. “I had heard he was a
good bowler,” he said to Roland, “and I thought it would be a good
thing to give him a chance to bowl early on; and then when I saw him
getting hit all over the place I imagined he was probably angling for a
catch or something; and then after he had been hit about in the first
two overs I had to give him a third for luck.”
“An expensive courtesy,” said Roland.
“Perhaps it was; but, after all, a hundred and five is not a great deal,
and we have a good many bats on our side.”
Within half an hour’s time a hundred and five for eight had become a
hundred and fifty. Under the kindly influence of his excellent champagne
cup Mr. Marston had decided to give the ecclesiastical student another
opportunity of justifying his reputation. He did not redeem that
reputation. He sent down two overs, which resulted--in addition to three
wides and a “no ball”--in twenty-five runs; and a hundred and fifty
would take a lot of getting. Indeed, Mr. Marston’s XI. never looked at
all like getting them.
Roland, who was sent in first, was caught at short leg in the second
over; it was off a bad ball and a worse stroke--a slow, long hop that he
hit right across, and skied. He was bitterly disappointed. He did not
mind making ducks; it was all in the run of a game, and he never minded
if he was got out by a good ball. But it was hard on such a day to throw
away one’s wicket.
“Very bad luck indeed,” said Muriel, as he reached the pavilion.
“Not bad luck, bad play!” he remarked good humoredly. Having taken off
his pads he sat down beside her and watched the game. It was not
particularly exciting; wickets fell with great regularity. Mr. Marston
made a few big hits, and his son stayed in for a little while without
doing anything much more than keep his end up. In the end the total
reached a hundred and thirteen, and in a one-day match a first innings
result was usually final. But Mr. Marston was not at all despondent. He
refused to wait for the tea interval and led his side straight on to the
field.
“We don’t want any rest,” he said. “Most of us have rested the whole
afternoon, and those of the other side who are not batting can have
tea.”
It was now four-thirty; two hours remained before the drawing of stumps,
and from now on the game became really exciting. Marston took two
wickets in his first over, and at the other end a man was run out. Three
wickets were down for two runs; a panic descended upon the villagers.
The cobbler was sent in to join the doctor, with strict instructions not
to hit on any account. The cobbler was not used to passive resistance;
he played carefully for a couple of overs, then a faster ball from
Marston found the edge of the bat. Short slip was for him,
providentially, asleep, and the umpire signaled a four. This seemed to
throw him off his balance.
“It is no good,” he said. “If I start mucking about like that I don’t
stand the foggiest chance of sticking in. I’m going to have a hit.”
At the next ball he did have a hit--right across it, and his middle
stump fell flat.
After this there was no serious attempt to wear down the bowling. Rustic
performers--each with a style more curious than the last--drove length
balls on the off stump in the direction of long on. Wickets fell
quickly. The score rose; and by the time the innings was over only an
hour was left for play, and ninety-two runs were required to
win--ninety-two runs against time in a fading light, on a wicket that
had been torn up by hob-nailed boots, was not the easiest of tasks.
“Still, we must have a shot for it,” Mr. Marston said. “We cannot be
more than beaten, and we are that already.”
And so Gerald Marston and Roland went in to open the innings with the
firm intention of getting on or getting out.
The start was sensational. Marston had few pretensions to style; and
indeed his unorthodox, firm-footed drive had been the despair of the
Fernhurst Professional. The ball, when he hit it, went into the air far
more often than along the ground. And probably no one was more surprised
than he was when he hit the first two balls that he received right along
the ground to the boundary, past cover-point. The third ball was well
up; he took a terrific drive at it, missed it, and was very nearly
bowled. Roland, who was backing up closely, called him for a run, and if
surprise at so unparalleled an example of impertinence had not rendered
the wicket-keeper impotent, nothing could have saved him from being run
out. A fever entered into Roland’s brain. He knew quite well that he
ought to play carefully for a few balls to get his eye in, but that
short run had flung him off his balance. The first ball he received he
hit at with a horizontal bat, and it sailed, fortunately for him, over
cover-point’s head for two. He attempted a similar stroke at the next
ball, was less fortunate, and saw cover-point prepare himself for an
apparently easy catch. But there is a kindly Providence which guards the
reckless.
Cover-point was the doctor, and probably the safest man in the whole
field to whom to send a catch. He was not, however, proof against the
impetuous ardor of mid-off. Mid-off saw the ball in the air and saw
nothing else. He rushed to where it was about to fall. He arrived at the
spot just when the doctor’s hands were preparing a comfortable nest for
the ball, and the doctor and mid-off fell in a heap together, with the
ball beneath them!
Twelve runs had been scored in the first five balls; there had been a
possible run out; a catch had been missed at cover-point. It was a
worthy start to a great innings.
After that everything went right with Roland. He attempted and brought
off some remarkably audacious shots. He let fly at everything that was
at all pitched up to him. Sometimes he hit the ball in the center of the
bat, and it sailed far into the long field, but even his mishits were
powerful enough to lift the ball out of reach of the instanding
fieldsman; and fortune was kind. By the time Marston was caught at the
wicket the score had reached fifty-seven, and there were still
twenty-five minutes left for play. At the present rate of scoring there
would be no difficulty in getting the runs. At this point, however, a
misfortune befell them.
In the first innings the ecclesiastical student had made a duck; he had
not, indeed, received a single ball. His predecessor had been bowled by
the last ball of an over, and off the first ball of the next over the
man at the other end had called him for an impossible run and he had
been run out. To recompense him for this ill luck Mr. Marston had put
him in first wicket down. “After all,” he had said, “we ought to let the
man have a show, and if he does make a duck it won’t make any
difference.” He was not prepared, however, for what did occur. The
ecclesiastical student was a left-handed batsman, and a sigh of relief
seemed to go up from the fielding side at the revelation. They were
sportsmen; they were prepared to run across in the middle of the over;
but even so, the preparation of a field for a left-hander was a lengthy
business.
A gray gloom descended on the pavilion.
“Well, I declare!” said Mr. Marston. “First of all he bowls on the leg
theory, with his field placed on the off, and then at a moment like this
he doesn’t let us know that he’s a left-hander!”
And the prospective divine appeared to be quite unconscious of the
situation. He had come out to enjoy himself; so far he had not enjoyed
himself greatly. He had taken no wickets, and had been responsible for
the loss of some fifty runs. This was his last chance, and he was not
going to hurry himself. He played his first three balls carefully, and
placed the last ball of the over in front of short leg for a single.
During the next four overs only eight runs were scored; four of these
were from carefully placed singles, off the fifth and sixth balls in the
over. Roland only had three balls altogether, and off one of these he
managed to get a square leg boundary.
The total had now reached sixty-five, twenty-eight runs were still
wanted, and only a quarter of an hour remained. Unless the left-hander
were got out at once there seemed to be no chance of winning; this fact
the village appreciated.
One would not say, of course, that the bowlers did not do their best to
dismiss the ecclesiastical student; they were conscientious men. But it
is very hard to bowl one’s best if one knows that one’s success will be
to the eventual disadvantage of one’s side; a certain limpness is bound
to creep into the attack. And if Roland had received the balls that
were being sent down to his partner, there is little doubt that a couple
of overs would have seen the end of the match.
Roland realized that something desperate must be done. Either the
left-hander must get out, or he himself must get down to the other end;
and so off the first ball of the next over Roland backed up closely. He
was halfway down the pitch by the time the ball reached the batsman. It
was a straight half-volley, which was met with a motionless, if
perpendicular, bat. The ball trickled into the hands of mid-off.
“Come on!” yelled Roland.
It was an impossible run, and the left-hander stood, in startled dismay,
a few steps outside the crease.
“Run!” yelled Roland. His partner ran a few steps, saw the ball was in
the hands of mid-off, and prepared to walk back to the pavilion.
Mid-off, however, was in a highly electric state. He had already
imperiled severely the prospects of his side by colliding with
cover-point, and was resolved, at any rate, not to make a second
blunder. He had the ball in his hands. There was a chance of running a
batsman out; he must get the ball to the unprotected wicket as soon as
possible, and so, taking careful aim, he flung the ball at the wicket
with the greatest possible violence. It missed the wicket; and a student
of the score book would infer that, after having played himself in
carefully and scoring four singles, F. R. Armitage opened his shoulders
in fine form. He might very well remain in this illusion, for there is
no further entry in the score book against that gentleman’s name. There
are just four singles and a five. He did not receive another ball.
Off the next four balls of the over Roland hit two fours and a two; off
the last ball he got another dangerously close single. Only ten more
runs were needed: there was now ample time in which to get them. Roland
got them indeed off the first four balls of the next over.
At the end of the match there was a scene of real enthusiasm, in which
Mr. Armitage was the only person who took no part. He was still
wondering what had induced Roland to call him for those absurd singles.
He indeed took Mr. Marston aside after dinner and pointed out to him
that that young man should really be given a few lessons in backing up.
“My dear sir,” he said, “it was only the merest fluke that saved my
wicket--another inch and I should have been run out.”
“Well, he managed to win the match for us,” replied Mr. Marston.
“Perhaps, perhaps, but he nearly ran me out.”
Mr. Armitage was, however, the only one of the party at all alarmed by
Roland’s daring. That evening Roland was a small hero. Mr. Marston could
find no words too good for him.
“A splendid fellow,” he said to Gerald afterwards. “A really splendid
fellow--the sort of friend I have always wanted you to make--a
first-class, open, straight fellow.”
Marston thought this a good opportunity to drop a hint about Roland’s
position.
“Yes--a first-class fellow,” he said. “Isn’t it rotten to think a chap
like that will have to spend the whole of his life in a bank, with only
a fortnight’s holiday a year, and no chance at all to develop his game!”
Mr. Marston’s rubicund face expressed appropriate disapproval.
“That fellow going to spend all his life in a bank? Preposterous! He
will be simply ruined there--a fellow who can play cricket like that!”
Mr. Marston, having spent his own life at a desk, was anxious to save
anyone else from a similar fate, especially a cricketer.
“Well, it seems the only thing for him to do, father; his people haven’t
got much money and have no influence. I know they have tried to get him
something better, but they haven’t been able to.”
“My dear Gerald, why didn’t you tell me about it? If I had known a
fellow like that was being tied up in a bank I’d have tried to do
something to help him.”
“Well, it’s not too late now, is it?”
“No, but it’s rather short notice, isn’t it? What could he do?”
“Pretty well anything you could give him, father. He is jolly keen.”
“Um!” said Mr. Marston; and Gerald, who knew his father well, recognized
that he was about to immerse himself in deep thought, and that it would
be wiser to leave him alone.
By next morning the deep thought had crystallized into an idea.
“Look here, Gerald,” said Mr. Marston. “I don’t know what this young man
is worth to me from a business point of view--probably precious little
at present. But he is a good fellow, the sort of young chap we really
want in the business. None of us are any younger than we were. As far as
I know, you are the only person under thirty in the whole show. Now,
what we do want badly just now are a few more foreign connections. We
have got the English market pretty well, but that is not enough. We want
the French and Belgian and German markets, and later on we shall want
the South American markets. Now, what I suggest is this: that when you
go out to France in November you should take young Whately with you,
show him round, and see what he is worth generally; and then we will
send him off on a tour of his own and see how many clients he brings us.
He is just the sort of fellow I want for that job. We don’t want the
commercial traveler type at all; he is very good at small accounts, but
he does not do for the big financiers. I want a man who is good enough
to mix in society abroad--whom big men like Bertram can ask to their
houses. A man like that would always have a pull over a purely business
man. Now, if your young friend would care to have a shot at that, he
can; and if he makes good at it he will be making more at twenty-five
with us than he would be at a bank by the time he was fifty.”
Marston carried the news at once to Roland.
“My lad,” he said, “that innings of yours is about the most useful thing
that has ever happened to you in your life. The old man thinks so much
of you he is prepared to cut me out of his will almost; at any rate, as
far as I can make out, he is going to offer you a job in our business.”
“What?”
“You will have to fix it up with him, of course, but he suggested to me
that you and I should go out together to France in November, and you
will be able to see the sort of way we do things, and then he will give
you a shot on your own as representative. If you do well at it--well, my
lad, you will be pretty well made for life!”
It was wonderful news for Roland. Life, at the very moment when it had
appeared to be closing in on him, had marvelously broadened out. He
returned home on the Monday morning, not only excited by the prospect
of a new and attractive job, but moved irresistibly by this sudden
vision of a world to which he was unaccustomed--by the charm, the
elegance and the direct good-naturedness of this family life.