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From Richard Venables, of St Austin's School, to his brother ArchibaldVenables, of King's College, Cambridge:
Dear Archie--I take up my pen to write to you, not as one hoping for ananswer, but rather in order that (you notice the Thucydideanconstruction) I may tell you of an event the most important of thosethat have gone before. You may or may not have heard far-off echoes ofmy adventure with Uncle John, who has just come back from thediamond-mines--and looks it. It happened thusly:
Last Wednesday evening I was going through the cricket field to meetUncle John, at the station, as per esteemed favour from the governor,telling me to. Just as I got on the scene, to my horror, amazement, anddisgust, I saw a middle-aged bounder, in loud checks, who, from hislooks, might have been anything from a retired pawnbroker to asecond-hand butler, sacked from his last place for stealing thesherry, standing in the middle of the field, on the very wicket theRugborough match is to be played on next Saturday (tomorrow), anddigging--_digging_--I'll trouble you. Excavating great chunks ofour best turf with a walking-stick. I was so unnerved, I nearlyfainted. It's bad enough being captain of a School team under anycircs., as far as putting you off your game goes, but when you see thewicket you've been rolling by day, and dreaming about by night, beingmangled by an utter stranger--well! They say a cow is slightlyirritated when her calf is taken away from her, but I don't suppose themost maternal cow that ever lived came anywhere near the frenzy thatsurged up in my bosom at that moment. I flew up to him, foaming at themouth. 'My dear sir,' I shrieked, '_are_ you aware that you'respoiling the best wicket that has ever been prepared since cricketbegan?' He looked at me, in a dazed sort of way, and said, 'What?' Isaid: 'How on earth do you think we're going to play Rugborough on aploughed field?' 'I don't follow, mister,' he replied. A man who callsyou 'mister' is beyond the pale. You are justified in being a littlerude to him. So I said: 'Then you must be either drunk or mad, and Itrust it's the latter.' I believe that's from some book, though I don'tremember which. This did seem to wake him up a bit, but before he couldframe his opinion in words, up came Biffen, the ground-man, to have alast look at his wicket before retiring for the night. When he saw theholes--they were about a foot deep, and scattered promiscuously, justwhere two balls out of three pitch--he almost had hysterics. I gentlyexplained the situation to him, and left him to settle with my friendof the check suit. Biffen was just settling down to a sort of Philippicwhen I went, and I knew that I had left the man in competent hands.Then I went to the station. The train I had been told to meet was the5.30. By the way, of course, I didn't know in the least what Uncle Johnwas like, not having seen him since I was about one-and-a-half, but Ihad been told to look out for a tall, rather good-looking man. Well,the 5.30 came in all right, but none of the passengers seemed to answerto the description. The ones who were tall were not good looking, andthe only man who was good looking stood five feet nothing in his boots.I did ask him if he was Mr John Dalgliesh; but, his name happening tobe Robinson, he could not oblige. I sat out a couple more trains, andthen went back to the field. The man had gone, but Biffen was stillthere. 'Was you expecting anyone today, sir?' he asked, as I came up.'Yes. Why?' I said. 'That was 'im,' said Biffen. By skilfulquestioning, I elicited the whole thing. It seems that the fearsomebargee, in checks, was the governor's 'tall, good-looking man'; inother words, Uncle John himself. He had come by the 4.30, I suppose.Anyway, there he was, and I had insulted him badly. Biffen told me thathe had asked who I was, and that he (Biffen) had given the information,while he was thinking of something else to say to him about hisdigging. By the way, I suppose he dug from force of habit. Thought he'dfind diamonds, perhaps. When Biffen told him this, he said in a nastyvoice: 'Then, when he comes back will you have the goodness to tell himthat my name is John Dalgliesh, and that he will hear more of this.'And I'm uncommonly afraid I shall. The governor bars Uncle Johnawfully, I know, but he wanted me to be particularly civil to him,because he was to get me a place in some beastly firm when I leave. Ihaven't heard from home yet, but I expect to soon. Still, I'd like toknow how I could stand and watch him ruining the wicket for our spotmatch of the season. As it is, it won't be as good as it would havebeen. The Rugborough slow man will be unplayable if he can find one ofthese spots. Altogether, it's a beastly business. Write soon, though Iknow you won't--Yours ever, _Dick_
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Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G., tohis son Richard Venables:
Venables, St Austin's. What all this about Uncle John. Says weregrossly rude. Write explanation next post--_Venables_.
Tales of St. Austin's Page 3
