THE SECOND MORNING’S PLAY
“By Jove!” exclaimed Carpenter in the scoring tent. “I haven’t seen Jan
do that for years. It used to mean that he was on the spot.”
“He did it when he went in just now,” replied the præpostor who was
scoring. “It only meant five more runs to him then.”
“But those five saved the follow! I don’t believe he meant to get any
more.”
“You don’t suggest that he got out on purpose, Chips?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. I know he told me the wicket would be just right
for him when the heavy roller had been over it. By Jove, he’s doing it
again!”
What Jan had done, and was doing again, was something which had been
chaffed out of him his first year in the Eleven. He was pulling the
white cap, with the honourably faded blue ribbon, tight down over his
head, so that his ears became unduly prominent, and his back hair gaped
transversely to the scalp.
The scorer remarked that he had better sharpen his pencil, and Jan
retorted that he had better watch the over first. It was the first over
of the Old Boys’ second innings, and the redoubtable Swiller had already
taken guard. Jan ran up to the wicket, with all his old clumsy
precision, but more buoyancy and verve than he put into his run now as a
rule. And the Swiller’s shaven face broke into a good-humoured grin as
the ball went thud into the wicket-keeper’s gloves; it had beaten him
completely; the next one he played; off the third he scored a brisk
single; and this brought Charles Cave to the striker’s crease, with the
air of the player who need never have got out in the first innings, and
had half a mind not to do it again.
Curious to find that even in those comparatively recent days there were
only four balls to the over in an ordinary two-day match; but such was
the case, according to the bound volume consulted on the point; and the
fourth and last ball of Jan’s first over in a memorable innings has a
long line to itself in the report. It appears to have been his own old
patent, irreproachable in length, but pitching well outside the
off-stump, and whipping in like lightning. It sent Charles Cave’s
leg-bail flying over thirty yards, if we are to believe contemporary
measurements. But the reporter refrains from stating that Jan had given
the peak of his cap a special tweak, though the fact was not lost upon
him at the time.
“Bowled, sir, bowled indeed!” roared Chips from the tent. “I knew it’d
be a trimmer; didn’t you fellows see how he pulled down his cap?”
And the now really great Charles Cave stalked back to the pavilion with
the nonchalant dignity of a Greek statue put into flannels and animated
with the best old English blood. But at the pavilion chains he had a
word to say to the next batsman, already emerging with indecent haste.
The next batsman was one of the bronzed brigade who could not grace the
old ground every season. This one had been in the Eleven two years in
his time, and had since made prodigious scores in regimental cricket in
India. In the first innings, nevertheless, he had shown want of practice
and failed to score; hence this bustle to avoid the dreaded pair. He was
rewarded by watching Swiller Wilman play an over from young Cave with
ease, scoring three off the last ball, and then playing a maiden from
Jan with more pains than confidence. The gallant soldier did indeed draw
blood, with a sweeping swipe in the following over from the younger
Cave. But the first ball he had from Jan was also his last; and the very
next one was too much for ex-captain Bruce.
“I told you it’d all come back, Rutter,” said Wilman with wry laughter
at the bowler’s end. “I’m sorry I commenced prophet quite so soon.”
“It’s the wicket,” Jan explained, genuinely enough. “I always liked a
wicket like this—the least bit less than fast—but you’ve got its pace
to a nicety.”
“I wish I had yours. You’re making them come as quick off the pitch as
you did two years ago. I wish old Boots Ommaney was here again.”
“I’d rather have him to bowl to than the next man in. Ommaney always
plays like a book, but Swallow’s the man to knock you off your length in
the first over!”
Swallow looked that man as he came in grinning but square-jawed, with a
kind of sunny storm-light in his keen, skilled eyes. It was capital fun
to find this boy suddenly at his best again; good for the boy, better
for the Eleven, and by no means bad for an old man of thirty-eight who
was actually on the point of turning out once more for the Gentlemen at
Lord’s. Practice and the bowler apart, however, it would never do for
the Old Boys to go to pieces after leading a rather weak school Eleven
as it was only proper that they should. It was time for a stand, and
certainly a stand was made.
But A. G. Swallow did not knock Jan off his length; he played him with
flattering care, and was content to make his runs off Cave. Jan made a
change at the other end, but went on pegging away himself. Wilman began
to treat him with less respect than the cricketer of highest class; in
club cricket, to be sure, there were few sounder or more consistent
players than the Swiller. He watched the ball on to the very middle of a
perpendicular bat, and played the one that came with Jan’s arm so near
to his left leg that there was no room for it between bat and pad. And
he played it so hard that with luck it went to the boundary without
really being hit at all.
Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, went up in sedate yet slightly accelerated
succession. Jan was trying all he knew, and now he had Cave back at the
other end. Another ten or so, and he felt that he himself must take a
rest, especially as A. G. Swallow was beginning to hit ruthlessly all
round the wicket. Yet Wilman’s was the wicket he most wanted, and it was
on Wilman that he was trying all his wiles—but one. That fatal
leg-break was not in his repertoire for the day; he had forsworn it to
himself before taking the field, and he kept his vow like a man.
What he was trying to do was to pitch the other ball a little
straighter, a fraction slower, and just about three inches shorter than
all the rest; at last he did it to perfection. Wilman played forward
pretty hard, the ball came skimming between the bowler and mid-off, and
Jan shot out his left hand before recovering his balance. The ball hit
it in the right place, his fingers closed automatically, and he had made
a very clever catch off his own bowling.
“Well caught, old fellow!” cried Evan from mid-off before any of them.
“I was afraid I’d baulked you.”
The others were as loud in their congratulations, and the field rang
with cheers. But Evan kept Jan buttonholed at mid-off, and they had a
whisper together while the new batsman was on his way out.
“What about bowling them all out by lunch? You might almost do it after
all!”
“I mean to, now.”
“Six wickets in three quarters of an hour?”
“But there’s not another Wilman or Swallow.”
“We shan’t get _him_ in a hurry.”
“Even if we don’t I believe I can run through the rest.”
“You’re a wonder!” exclaimed Evan, then drew still nearer and dropped
his voice. “I say, Jan!”
“What is it? There’s a man in.”
“If you did get them I might still go by myself this afternoon.”
“Rot!”
“I’d have time if you put me in as late as I deserve. I can fight my own
battle. I really——”
“Shut up, will you? Man in!”
Two overs later the new batsman had succumbed to Jan after a lofty
couple through the slips; but A. G. Swallow had begun to force the game
in a manner more delightful to watch from the ring than at close
quarters. He did not say it was his only chance. He was too old a hand
to discuss casualties with the enemy. He kept his own counsel in the now
frequent intervals, but his keen eyes sparkled with appreciation of the
attack (from one end) and with zest in the exercise of his own higher
powers. Enterprise and defense had not been demanded of him in such
equal measure for some past time; and yet with all his preoccupation he
had a fatherly eye upon the young bowler who was making this tax upon
his tried resources. Really, on his day, the boy was good enough to bowl
for almost any side; and he seemed quite a nice boy, too, to A. G.
Swallow, though perhaps a little rough. As to unpopularity, there was no
sign of that now; that good-looking little chap at mid-off seemed fond
enough of him; and he was not the only one. At the fall of each wicket a
bigger and more enthusiastic band surrounded the heroic bowler; the
cheers were louder from every quarter. If an unpopular fellow could
achieve this popular success, well, it said all the more for his pluck
and personality.
Eight wickets were down for 95, and Jan had taken every one of them,
before Stratten stayed with Swallow and there was another stand.
Stratten was only a moderate bats, but he had been two years in the team
with Jan, and three years in the same house, and he knew how to throw
his left leg across to the ball that looked as though it wanted cutting.
He had never made 30 runs off Jan in a game, and he did not make 10
to-day, but he stayed while the score rose to 130 and the clock crept
round to 1.15; then he spoilt Jan’s chance of all ten wickets by being
caught in the country off a half-volley from Goose—last hope at the
other end.
Swallow had crossed before the catch was made, and he trotted straight
up to Jan in the slips.
“Hard luck, Rutter! I hoped you were going to set up a new school
record.”
“I don’t care as long as we get you all out before lunch.”
Jan was wiping the cluster of beads from his forehead, and dashing more
from the peak of his cap before pulling it down once more over his nose.
He only saw his mistake when A. G. Swallow looked at him with a smile.
“Why before lunch, with the afternoon before us?”
“Because I feel dead!” exclaimed Jan with abnormal presence of mind. “I
could go on now till I drop, but I feel more like lying up than lunch.”
“Not measles, I hope?” said Swallow; and certainly Jan looked very red.
“Had ’em,” said he laconically.
“Then it’s either cause or effect,” remarked Swallow, turning to George
Grimwood, who had long looked as inflated as though he had taught Jan
all he knew. “I’ve often noticed that one does one’s best things when
one isn’t absolutely fighting fit, and I’ve heard lots of fellows say
the same.”
Now George Grimwood, as already stated, was a professional cricketer of
high standing and achievement; but by this time he was also a school
umpire of the keenest type, and his original humanity had not shown
itself altogether proof against the foibles of that subtly demoralising
office. Not only did he take to himself entirely undue credit for Mr.
Rutter’s remarkable performance, but he grudged Mr. Goose that last
wicket far more than Jan did. One hope, however, the professional had
cherished all the morning, and it was not yet dead in his breast. He
longed to see Mr. Swallow, his own old opponent on many a first-class
field, succumb to his young colt in the end; and now there was not much
chance of it, with only one more over before lunch, especially if Mr.
Rutter was really going to lie up afterwards.
So this was what happened—it may have been the very soundest
verdict—but as the climax of a great performance it was not altogether
satisfactory. Whitfield _major_, the last batsman, who really might have
gone in earlier, clubbed the first ball of Jan’s last over for three.
The next ball may or may not have been on the off-stump. It appeared to
come from a tired arm, to lack the sting of previous deliveries, to be
rather a slower ball and as such just short of a really good length. But
A. G. Swallow, still notoriously nimble on his feet, came out to hit
across a straight half-volley on the strength of the usual break. He
missed the ball, and it hit his pad; but there was no appeal from the
bowler. That was the great point against George Grimwood. Jan was giving
his cap another tug over his nose, when consequential Evan appealed for
him from mid-off.
“Out!” roared the redoubtable George without an instant’s hesitation.
The Old Boys’ second innings had closed for 133. Jan had taken 9 wickets
for 41 runs. And A. G. Swallow was last out for 57—if out at all—and
his eagle eye was clouded with his own opinion on the point.
The school was already streaming off the ground on its way back to
dinner in the houses; but many remained, and some turned back, to give
batsmen and bowler the reception they deserved. More articulate praises
pursued them to the dressing-room. These ran like water off Jan’s back
as he sat stolidly changing his shoes; for in those days the players
dispersed to luncheon in the houses also. He explained his apparent
ungraciousness by some further mention of “a splitting head.” But as a
matter of fact he had every one of his wits about him, and his most
immediate anxiety was to avoid Evan, whom he saw obviously waiting to
waylay him. He made a point of writing out the order of going in before
leaving the pavilion. It was the same order as before, except that Jan
promoted the last two men and wrote his own name last of all.
“I’ll turn up if I can,” he announced as he tacked himself on to Charles
Cave, of all people, to Evan’s final discomfiture. “But let’s hope I
shan’t be wanted; unless it’s a case of watching the other fellow make
the winning hit, I shall be as much use in my study as on the pitch.”
Evan heard this as he walked as near them as he very well could. The
narrow street was a running river of men and boys with glistening
foreheads, who hugged the shadows and shrank ungratefully from the first
hot sunshine of the term. Charles Cave, stalking indolently next the
wall, said he hoped Jan was going up to the 'Varsity, as they wanted
bowlers there, and a man who could bowl like that would stand a good
chance of his Blue at either Oxford or Cambridge. Jan replied that he
was afraid he was not going to either, but to the Colonies, a scheme
which the other seemed to consider so deplorable that Evan dropped out
of earshot from a feeling that the conversation was beginning to take a
private turn. And sure enough, after a pause, it took one that surprised
Jan himself almost as much as it did Charles Cave.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Jan with apparent deliberation, but in
reality on as sudden an impulse as ever dictated spoken words. “You see,
you don’t know what it is to be a beggar, Cave!”
“I don’t, I’m glad to say.”
“Well, I do, and it’s rather awkward when you’re captain of the Eleven.”
“It must be.”
“It is, Cave, and if you could lend me a fiver I’d promise to pay you
back before the end of the term.”
The calm speech was so extraordinarily calm, the tone so matter-of-fact
and every-day, that after a second’s amazement the Old Boy could only
assume that Jan’s splitting head had already affected the mind within.
That charitable construction did not prevent Charles Cave from refusing
the monstrous request with equal coolness and promptitude; and an
utterly unabashed reception of the rebuff only confirmed his conclusion.
“After all, why should you?” asked Jan, with a strange chuckle. “But I
shall have to raise it somewhere, and I daresay you won’t tell anybody
that I tried you first.”
And before there could be any answer to that, Jan had turned without
ceremony into Heath’s, the saddler’s shop, where the boys bespoke flies
to take them to their trains at the end of the term. As a rule these
orders were booked weeks beforehand, but the fly that Jan now ordered
was to be outside Mr. Heriot’s quad at 2.45 that afternoon.
“Is it to go to Molton, sir?”
“That’s it.”
“But there’s no train before the 4.10, Mr. Rutter.”
“I can’t help that. I was asked to order it for some people who’re down
for the match. They may be going to see some of the sights of the
country first.”
Outside the shop, he found Evan waiting for him.
“I say, Jan, what’s all this about your being seedy?”
“That’s my business. Do you think I’m shamming?”
Evan missed the twinkle again. There was some excuse for him. It was
unintentional now.
“I don’t know, but if I thought you were going yourself——”
“Shut up, Evan! That’s all settled. You go in fourth wicket down again,
and mind you make some.”
“But if you’re seen——”
“What on earth makes you think I’m going? I’ve fixed up the whole thing.
That should be good enough. I thought you left it to me?”
At Heriot’s corner, old Bob himself was standing in conversation with
Mr. Haigh, the two of them mechanically returning the no less
perfunctory salutes of the passing stream. Charles Cave had paused a
moment before going on into the house.
“I’m afraid the hero of the morning’s a bit off-colour, Mr. Heriot.”
“Not Rutter?”
Cave nodded.
“He says his head’s bad. I think it must be. It looks to me like a touch
of the sun.”
“I hope not,” said Heriot, as Cave passed on. “He really is a fine
fellow, Haigh, as well as the fine bowler you’ve just seen once more. I
sometimes think you might forget what he was, after all these years.”
“Oh, I’ve nothing against the fellow,” said Haigh, rather grandly. “But
I take a boy as I find him, and I found Rutter the most infernal
nuisance I ever had in my form.”
“Years ago!”
“Well, at all events, there’s no question of a grudge on my side. I
wouldn’t condescend to bear a grudge against a boy.”
Haigh spoke as though he really wished to mean what he said. His general
principles were as sound as his heart could be kind, but both were
influenced by a temper never meant for schoolmastering. At this moment
Jan and Evan hove into sight, and Heriot detained the cricketer of his
house, questioned him about his head, reassured himself as to a former
authentic attack of measles, and finally agreed with Jan’s suggestion
that he should stay quietly in his study until he felt fit to go back to
the ground. He did not want any lunch.
Meanwhile, Haigh had not gone off up the hill, but had stayed to put in
a difficult word or two of his own, as though to prove the truth of his
assertion to Heriot. He went further as Jan was about to turn down to
the quad.
“By the way, Rutter, I’ve a very good prescription for that kind of
thing, now I think of it. I’ll send it up to you if you like.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Jan politely.
“You shall have it as soon as they can make it up. They’ve probably kept
a copy at the chemist’s. I’ll go in and see.”
Jan could only thank his old enemy again, and so retreat from the
embarrassment of further tributes to his successful malingering. It was
a loathsome part to play, especially for a blunt creature who had very
seldom played a part in his life. But there were worse things in front
of him, if he was to carry out his resolve, and do the deed which he
never seriously dreamt of deputing to another. It was more than risky.
But it could be done; nor was the risk the greatest obstacle. Money was
at once the crux and the touchstone of the situation. No use tackling
Cerberus without a decent sop up one’s sleeve! And Jan had only just
eight shillings left.
He sat in his bleak, untidy study, listening to the sound of knives and
forks and voices in the hall, and eyeing those few possessions of his
which conceivably might be turned into substantial coin of the realm.
There were the four or five second and third prizes that he had won in
the sports, and there was his mother’s gold watch. It he had worn
throughout his schooldays; and it had struck him very much in the
beginning that nobody had ever asked him why he wore a lady’s watch; but
there were some things about which even a new boy’s feelings were
respected, now he came to think of it.... He came to think of too many
things that had nothing to do with the pressing question; of the other
watch that he had won at the fair, and sold at the time for the very few
shillings it would bring; of the mad way in which he had thrown himself
into that adventure, just as he was throwing himself into this one now.
But it was no good raking up the past and comparing it with the present.
Besides, there had been no sense in the risk he ran then; and now there
was not only sense but necessity.
So absolute was the necessity in Jan’s view that he would not have
hesitated to part with his precious watch for the time being, if only
there had been a pawnbroker’s shop within reach; but, perhaps by
arrangement with the school authorities, there was no such establishment
in the little town; and there was no time to try the ordinary tradesmen,
even if there was one of them likely to comply and to hold his tongue.
Jan thought of Lloyd, the authorised jeweller, thought of George
Grimwood and old Maltby, and was still only thinking when the quad
filled under his window, the study passage creaked and clattered with
boots, and Chips Carpenter was heard demanding less noise in a far more
authoritative voice than usual.
It was almost too much to hear poor old Chips steal into his own study
next door like any mouse to hear what he was about, and how quietly, and
then to see the solicitous face he poked into Jan’s study before going
back to the Upper. Chips left him his Saturday allowance of a
shilling—that made nine—but it was no good consulting or trying to
borrow from a chap who hated Evan. Jan got rid of him with a twitch of
preposterous excruciation, and in a very few minutes had the studies to
himself.