*CHAPTER I*
*The Queen's Purse-Bearer*
Winton St. Mary--Cricket: Old Style--Last Man In--Bowled--The Gaffer
Explains--More Explanations--Parson Rochester--"The Boy"--Cambridge in
the Field--Village Batsmen--Old Everlasting makes One--The Squire--An
Invitation--Lord Godolphin is Interested--An Uphill Game--Young
Pa'son--The Winning Hit
"Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again!
Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle--and I've too many--is filled
with dust; and my wig--plague on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat. Look at
it--whew!"
My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, and
shook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse of
one of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excuse
for his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of glorious
weather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other English
highways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumn
rains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. The
Lord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked,
with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, every
day of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, now
nearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had he
been a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had he
been of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; but
being near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove in
his private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and four
sturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perils
of footpads and highwaymen.
It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begun
to acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey to
London that day.
"Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider on
the off-side.
"Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenue
yonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and the
village here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord."
"Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles.
My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but she
must e'en be content to wait. Time was----eh, my boy?--but now, egad,
I'll not kill myself for her or any woman."
"'Twould be a calamity--for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin with
a grin.
"So it would, i' faith. Never fear, Frank, I'll not make way for you
for ten years to come. But what's afoot yonder? A fair, eh?"
The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sight
of the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind the
church, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned,
broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and bounded
in the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord's
exclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met his
eyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, were
ranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from the
humble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some county
magnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of a
crowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears were
assailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betoken
incidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldness
and reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keen
sportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or a
sword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss to
him; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes lit
up with an anticipation vastly different from his air of weary
discontent.
"Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual with
him; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us up. John," he added to the
postilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening you
find in the ring. Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make an
afternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger, come what
may."
The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drove
with many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehicles
until they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a dray
heaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to the
crowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiously
towards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, for
beyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heed
to the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front of
the church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched--very primitive
compared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumps
were two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant into
the turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing had
been done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby,
with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong.
There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there any
uniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings and
pantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in their
shirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth.
"Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, and
something in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game was
at a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat like
long spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was to
receive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall,
loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easy
confidence.
"Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "I
knew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who's the bowler? I don't know him."
The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeen
years, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting the
word to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair,
not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; and
as he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidious
preparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his left
hand.
"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!"
he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him by
the rope, "how stands the score?"
The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speaker
was one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied:
"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'ready
twenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out."
"Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and looked
round the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quick
glance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered the
ball--underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The ball
travelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground,
pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the off
towards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual--the village smith. He,
bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, and
fell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derision
and disappointment.
"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin had
spoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner,
running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to his
end of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut two
notches in the scoring stick.
Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. The
batsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on the
rise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over the
rope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of the
church. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches in
front of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the credit
of the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silence
among the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the out
side, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upon
their enjoyment.
Sir Gilbert once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowler
took his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this time
was a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemed
to be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With a
perplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit the
off stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly and
lay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a moment
with rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowd
cheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, at
which ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had.
"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, a
most teasing twist; capital, capital!"
"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?"
"Not I, i' faith. 'Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I'll drink a glass
of cider here and wait your return."
There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lord
a brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquor
touched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was at
least cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave it
back he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one hand
upon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a rough
three-legged stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and the
rope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun;
his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still a
brightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespoke
health and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hat
and wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, looked
placidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear,
for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to get
refreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then Lord
Godolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriage
and went towards the veteran.
"Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?"
The old man looked up.
"Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med think
me too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall be
eighty-one, and I ha'n't a wamblen tooth in my head--not one, old as I
be. A man's as old as he feels, says my boy--one o' the wise sayens he
has: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive year
neither."
"By George! I wish I could say the same. What's the match, gaffer?"
"Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye this' and
'I'll lay ye that' in these days. I don't know the rights on't, but
'tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire's.--Do 'ee know
Squire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire's
son be hot wi' his tongue, and at this same supper--I tell 'ee as I
yeard it--he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he'd bring
eleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our village
players at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said.
Master Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come about.
The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on 'em; our folks,
as your honour med see, be just or'nary folks in the main: there's Long
Robin the tanner and Lumpy the smith--he that turned topsy-turvy
a-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlasten
they calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay,
a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own. And there
be Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk;
and the only gentry among 'em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa'son's
son, and he don't count for gentry wi' some. Do 'ee know pa'son? a good
man, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son Rochester, and
stands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do--a right good man is
pa'son, ay sure. And his son Harry--well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'm
main fond of the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spoken
too, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a deal o' he. Why,
'twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t' last man from Cambridge
college.--There, my old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?"
"Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson's son, eh?
Bred for a parson too, I suppose?"
"He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He said
to me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me when
I go up to Oxford?' He be gwine come October, a' believe. 'Twas at
Oxford college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll put
on the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat better. But
he'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless 'ee,
Pa'son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a'n't afeard o'
Squire. I be afeard o' Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it. Ah!
he's a hard man, is Squire. A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause he
wouldn't be his chaplain--goo up t' hall an' say grace and eat the
mutton and turmuts, an' come away wi'out pudden. Wi'out pudden!--I
wouldn't goo wi'out pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancy
for pa'son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of this
common land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi'out
mind; and pa'son stood up to 'n, and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agen
the law, an' he had the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up in
Lun'on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor' bless 'ee, Squire
be as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for judges; he ups and
'peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an'
Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take a
time for her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the matter;
her don't know pa'son so well as we."
"Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word for
him," said my lord jestingly.
The old man stared.
"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he said
slowly.
"I? Oh--well, I have care of the Queen's purse."
"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight or
squire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o'
the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man--ay, gone eighty year. I was
born three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, a
wamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favoured
before the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ell
was the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in his
regiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather,
true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty year
back. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders when
Noll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life when
Charles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fighten
the French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to be
sure; ay, that 'tis."
Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagers
approaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with a
humorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and as
he walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by the
man at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiled
affectionately.
"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the year
afore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."
The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:
"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May,
Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away.
For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin',
But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'.
For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut;
And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the
turmut."
"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, your
honour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill lead
un into bad company in the days o' his youth. He _will_ sing 'Sir Simon
the King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had a
good breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as we
marched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.--Boy, doff
your hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.--Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an'
speritual songs in my time, as the Book says."
"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin.
"Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows his
own child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me Sherebiah
Stand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to bad
courses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready for
churchyard--bean't 'ee, dad?"
"Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy."
"May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin,
coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd.
My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day,
in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man.
"I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert.
"My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with a startled
look. "My lard,--an' I ha'n't even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff your
cap to my lard! And the Book says, 'They shall stand afore princes',
and I'm a-sitten!"
The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff,
but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down.
"Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. I
am pleased to have met one of Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and I
hope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."
He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned to his carriage.
The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men were
already taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred was
higher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerly
discussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothing
of the other side's bowling powers, but as they compared notes on the
various merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, and
the rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in the
mouth.
The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were Old
Everlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled by
Gilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball of
the four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over was
called. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very red
hair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat in
a nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of the
crowd.
"Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan't be afeard, man."
"Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for the
barber's attentions.
Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the other
end. The ball came towards him--a slow, tempting lob that was too easy
to let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently to
the bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced little
barber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!--a bad
beginning for Winton St. Mary.
Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning up
his sleeves--a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick as
most men's thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handle
the bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use that
was to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil.
Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his left
hand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not to
be so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for the
ball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicular
blow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. The
Cambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, and
Lumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ball
of the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completely
round as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it high
over long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovered
until he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of the
over thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamed
upon the spectators with his usual smug smile.
Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him;
if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out every
time with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover his
balance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, Old
Everlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls that
fell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bow
leg's, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail was
promptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven.
After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that the
villagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball,
and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather the
ball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of his
own--one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took down
every week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit a
ball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to his
cronies that another week's greasing would have prevented the accident.
Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himself
came in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom he
was very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the match
and the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. He
snicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intense
enthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring his
first notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making all
the runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra from
an overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the best
batsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind.
There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waited
in glum silence for the next man to appear.
"Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squire
a-comen down-along by covert fence?"
"True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes 'ee've got, for a
old ancient soul! 'Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and the
Cap'n wi' un."
Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered at
the three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime of
life, dressed in semi-military garb--a feathered hat, long red coat
marked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, and
spurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent and
blood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt.
The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity of
foppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned a
full auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoat
purple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk was
tucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockings
were of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles.
In Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttons
of his coat dangled an amber-headed cane.
The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall and
thin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows that
ill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground as
he moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. His
dress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man must
have resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second's time.
"Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "The
rascals there avoid him as he had the plague."
"On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow with
him might stand for Bobadil himself."
"Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play."
"And the young sprig wants a kicking."
"Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "'tis old
Squire, and young Squire, and---- No, I won't say 't; a wise head keeps
a still tongue; I won't say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air med
carry it where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner o' good."
The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way for
the new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his two
companions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a few
vehement words in a low tone that no one else could hear. Captain Ralph
Aglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across the
common towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance for
a moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came to
within a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage.
"Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound bow, copied with
elaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voice
that set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground,
and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship."
"I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.----"
"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would your
lordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, to
offer your lordship a cover at my table--poor country fare, I fear, but
such as it is, freely at your lordship's disposal."
"'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will not
permit us to accept of your hospitality.--Ah! I perceive the next
batsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you're as keen a sportsman as I
am myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game."
Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment's
irresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed to
lick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of cold
shoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two,
gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remained
unnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked away
sucking it.
The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new
batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every
ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same
boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the
long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than
forty-five.
"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin.
"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?"
"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake,"
said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?"
"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; too
rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly."
"A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as
he bowls?"
"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a
deal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But
there, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as you
med say."
"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a pretty
lad. Gi' un a cheer, souls."
"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-along
this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say."
"True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n't
think it. Well!"
But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd had
no scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the new
batsman's honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease and
watched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glanced
around, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on the
bowler.
The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip in
the village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patient
wariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with a
respectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style.
He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after another
excellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The first
ball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhaps
alone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, saw
his lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenly
gleam--and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler's head,
passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on the
point of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a
"Mind old Squire, feyther o' mine."
"Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I could
do a bit o' cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine."
Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily to
Harry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope among
the crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut to
his credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, and
Harry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till the
fourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus to
the wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators by
driving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score had
risen to sixty-three.
"'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harry
has'n clear an' steady. Ay sure, a' would ha' made a good captain for
Noll Crum'ell; if so be he's a pa'son, all the use he can make o' his
eye, 'twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard."
But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. Old
Everlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a new
bowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stops
were placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, the
stumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll,
rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to the
tent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit of
this was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ball
missed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called his
partner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second run
he was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This he
hit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partner
was somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptly
run out after one run had been scored.
Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five--thirty-five
behind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable in
the crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and there
was general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsman
was a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs about
the village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence.
"A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits,
souls."
Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was never
seen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy to
do just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how to
obey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground he
remained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hitting
when it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose by
ones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of the
spectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Every
hit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa'son"
added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal and
opposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game.
Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in one
another's way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly and
confidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a full
pitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler's head, and brought
the total to a hundred and two.
The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away.
Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to the
tent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famous
victory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was with
difficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of his
stick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation:
"A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!"
"By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is a
lad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a sportsman an he lives long enough.
Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the Lord
Treasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we'll drive on."
He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off.
Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash.
"Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Queen's purse, my lads, mighty
fine! There be a power o' these same shinen bright ones in the Queen's
purse; eh, lads?"
A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group around
old Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin's carriage
had broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging,
and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. A
score of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull was
left to himself.
*CHAPTER II*
*Sherebiah Shouts*
An Angling Story--Old Izaak--Landed--Breakfast--Marlborough's Smile--The
Story of a Potticary--Dosed--On the Horizon--Highwaymen--A Man of
Peace--Behind the Scenes--Nos Duo--Promises--Black John
Simmons--Sherebiah is Troubled
"'Tis here or hereabouts, baten years ha'n't tooken my memory. True,
feyther o' mine calls me boy, and so I be to a old aged man like him;
but when a man's comen on forty-four, and ha' seen summat o' the
world--well,
"'Man's life is but vain, for 'tis subject to pain
An' sorrow, an' short as a bubble;
'Tis a hodge-podge o' business, an' money, an' care,
An' care, an' money, an' trouble.'