My efforts at the L.A.C. threw rather a cloud on my career at this
season, for they continued to be crowned with failure; in fact, the
bitter truth was slowly brought home to me that I was not a good runner.
I won a heat in two handicaps, after repeated losses; but when it came
to the semi-finals, in both cases my performance was quite beneath
consideration. I was very unequal, and Nat Perry said that my running
was rather “in and out,” and Dicky Travers said that it might be
misunderstood and count against me, though, of course, he knew it was
not intentional, but just according to the sort of spirits I was in. For
instance, if Mr. Westonshaugh had praised me at the office, or Mr.
Montgomery Merridew had said I was getting on at the Dramatic School,
then, curiously enough, I ran better; but if Mr. Westonshaugh had
frowned, or Mr. Merridew had exhibited impatience about my deportment or
voice production, then my legs seemed to feel it, and sulk, and go
slower, just when I most wanted them to go faster. Such, no doubt, is
life.
But, to compensate for these reverses, most extraordinary success
attended my cricket, and at the end of the season it was found on
calculation that I headed the batting list with an average of forty,
decimal something, for eight completed innings. We were the champion
insurance office that season, thanks in a measure to me and another much
better man called Finlay, who bowled at a great pace and was also a
steady run-getter. Then came the striking news that there was a bat
given annually for the best average. It was bestowed publicly, in the
Board Room, and the Secretary presented it in the name of the directors.
For an instant I regretted my achievement; then I told myself that as a
man destined to take his place on the public stage and be in the public
eye, a trifling matter like a presentation-bat was all in the day’s
work. So I took the matter in a light spirit, and, though doubtless many
felt very envious of my amazing luck, for there were five “not outs” in
my average, I none the less treated it with great apparent coolness.
“You’ll have to make a speech,” said Mr. Blades, and I merely answered:
“Of course. You always have to in these cases”—just as though receiving
testimonials was as common a thing with me as registering policies.
Behind the scenes, however, the case was very different, and, as the
time drew nearer for the presentation of the bat, I found, rather to my
surprise, that my pulse quickened when the thought came into my mind.
To quiet this effect, which was entirely owing to the fact of being
unprepared, I planned a speech. Of course, a written speech was out of
the question, as only monarchs read their speeches, which they take from
the hand of a courtier at the critical moment; but there is no objection
to writing a speech first and then learning it by heart and delivering
it in a slightly halting manner, as though it was an impromptu. This can
be done, and with my histrionic attainments and increasing command of
deportment and voice production, I felt hopeful that I should make a
good impression. I felt my future official career might depend to some
extent on this speech, and I spent several evenings at home, writing it
and touching it up, so that it should be worthy of the Apollo Fire
Office, and of the occasion, and of me.
I never polished anything so much in my life, and after it was completed
to my satisfaction I tried it on Aunt Augusta, to see how it struck her,
as an unprejudiced person, ignorant of cricket and so on.
“You are to imagine the Board Room of the Apollo full of a seething and
serried flood of officials,” I said. “The Secretary, the famous Mr.
Septimus Trott, rises in his chair and addresses the meeting. The
affairs of the cricket club are discussed, and its great success during
the past season; then he mentions me by name, and very likely a few of
my best friends will raise a cheer. This cheer may possibly spread to
men from the other departments, until the whole assemblage honours me
with congratulations. I don’t say it will, of course, but it may. Then I
step out and go up to the secretarial chair, and Mr. Septimus Trott,
doubtless with a passing thought of how very different was the last time
I came before him, smiles genially, picks up the presentation-bat, which
I have already chosen, and hands it to me. He bows; I bow. Then I accept
the bat in the true spirit of sportsmanship, and speak as follows.”
After that I read my aunt the speech, which was cast in these memorable
words:
“Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, it would be no exaggeration to say that I
was amazed at my performance as a wielder of the willow during our past
season on the tented field. In my earlier days, Mr. Secretary and
gentlemen, such little success as I may claim for my efforts was with
the leather; but I never thought that, even helped with such phenomenal
luck as has fallen to my share, I should top our averages and find
myself standing before you in this honourable and invidious position.”
“Surely not ‘invidious,’” said Aunt Augusta; but I held up my hand for
silence, in the style of Mr. Merridew when interrupted, and proceeded
with the speech.
“The game of cricket, Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, is of surpassing
antiquity; but it is subject to those famous laws of evolution
discovered by Mr. Darwin, and it has vastly changed for the better
during the last half-century. We can hardly imagine that first-class
cricket is capable of further development; yet we are wrong. It is. And
though I may not be here to see it, I have no hesitation in saying that
some of you collected here to-day may live to observe vast changes in
this historic, manly, and essentially English pastime.
“Much has already been done since the days of Captain Fellowes and
Fuller Pilch to improve the national game; and though it is not possible
to us of the Apollo Fire Office, owing to the many calls upon our time
in this hive of industry, to acquire what you might consider perfection
at what has been well called ‘the King of Games,’ still, we have already
shown ourselves to be no mean foemen in the fifth or sixth-class
cricket, which we practise so ably, as many a victory over our
formidable antagonists in other insurance offices so clearly shows.
“That it has been my great good fortune, Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, to
advance our prosperity to the flood-tide of success will ever be a
source of proud gratification to me and my family in days to come; and I
have no hesitation in saying that, among my possessions, be they great
or small, in after life, I shall cherish this bat as a jewel in my
crown, so to say, and never relinquish it as long as my powers enable me
to participate in our national pastime.
“In conclusion, Mr. Secretary and—--”
Here my Aunt Augusta interposed again—definitely and sternly:
“Really—really—I do think it’s too long, my dear boy,” she said. “It’s
awfully good and interesting, and flows beautifully, and if I was a
clerk in your office I should love to hear you say it; but—but—--”
“You miss the elocution and the pauses and effects,” I explained. “I’m
merely _reading_ it now; but when I _deliver_ it, everything will be
quite different.”
“It may be so,” she said, “but I have a firm conviction that it is far
too long for the occasion. You see, after the office hours are over, the
men will all be wanting to hurry off to catch trains, and so on; and it
would be a fearfully disappointing thing for you, in the midst of your
speech, if people began going out. Suppose, as an extreme case, that the
Secretary himself, who is a very important and busy man, _had_ to go
before you had finished? Think what a cloud it would cast, and how you
would feel.”
Of course the vision of the Secretary slipping away, and the clerks
stealing out one by one, was a very painful vision; and my mind seemed
to take hold of this gloomy idea of Aunt Augusta’s and elaborate it,
until I pictured a scene where I and my bat were finally left in the
midst of the Board Room in solitary state, addressing the empty air!
“I hadn’t looked at it in that manner,” I told Aunt Augusta, “and yet it
seems a frightful shame that this thing should all go for nothing.”
“Couldn’t you shorten it by about three-quarters?” she suggested; but I
felt, somehow, that this was out of the question.
“It is a case of all or none, as we say,” I replied, “and I am afraid it
had better be a case of none. I should like to have delivered the
speech, and I may tell you that what is called the ‘per-oration’ was the
best part of it. I worked up to a sort of a pitch in it—a pitch of true
feeling. In fact, it was poetry; and if I had done it properly, they’d
have forgotten all about their trains and even felt it was worth missing
them. But all is now over. I expect you are right, though, of course, it
is impossible to be certain.”
With these words, I made a quick movement and dramatically cast the
manuscript of the speech upon the fire. I thought that Aunt Augusta,
womanlike, would have leapt forward, smitten with remorse before the
spectacle, and dashed at the grate and very likely burned herself in
unavailing efforts to rescue my words. But she made no such effort, and
expressed no remorse whatever. I could not help showing a little
irritation.
“Hang it all,” I said, “you might have asked to hear the peroration!”
She put her hand on my arm.
“I’m an artist too,” she said, in her quiet voice, “but I’m old,
compared to you, and my sense of humour has been sharpened through a
good many sorrows as well as joys. My dearest boy, it wasn’t any
good—honestly—honestly. You can do a million times better than that.
Just say what comes into your head, and you’ll cover yourself with
glory.”
Of course the female sex is famous for a sort of intuition, and they
often get clever and correct ideas without working for them like we men
have to do. They have flashes of sense, as it were, and though sometimes
the flashes are right bang off, to use a slang phrase, still, there is
no doubt that often the things they utter on the spur of the moment will
be found to hit the right nail on the head. Aunt Augusta had sense,
though the worlds of the City and of sport were, naturally, sealed books
to her. I allowed her hand to stay on my arm, which I did not always do,
and granted that I honestly believed she was very likely right.
“And if you’ve had a good many sorrows in your time, Aunt Augusta, I’m
very sorry, and don’t wish to add to them,” I said. “In fact, really, in
cold blood, looking back at my idea of a speech, with stage deportment,
and elocution, and so on—and pathos at the end, it may have been
infernal cheek to think of such a thing from a junior clerk to a crowd
of grown-up men. They might have given me ‘the bird,’ which is
theatrical parlance for hissing; they might have got right-down annoyed,
and thought I was making game of them; they might even have taken away
the bat!”
“No,” she said, “they would never have done anything like that; but I’m
sure they would have thought you were making too much of the whole
affair; and that would have hurt your feelings.”
So we left it in that way, and I not merely forgave Aunt Augusta, but
thanked her for saving me from what might have been a considerable peril
and very likely damaged my future prospects in the Apollo.
When the great evening actually did come, only about a dozen sporting
clerks, including Mr. Blades and Dicky Travers, dropped in to see the
presentation, and Mr. Septimus Trott, in about six well-chosen words,
handed me my bat and congratulated me on winning it. In return I merely
said: “Thank you, sir. I’m very glad to have had such luck.”
It was like those rather dreadful accounts of hangings, when you read
that from the moment of pinioning till the drop fell was a period of
less than two minutes. Not one of the meagre handful of clerks who
attended the ceremony need have feared to miss his train; and doubtless
they were well aware of this before they came to the ceremonial.
On the whole, I wasted a good deal of valuable time and thought on this
subject, and shall never regard it as one of the most satisfactory
things that happened to me during my first year in London. In fact, it
was rather sad in a way, though very satisfactory from a purely sporting
point of view.