“I’m terribly sorry, Oliver,” he said, “what can we do about this?”
“Oh—a bit of sticking plaster will put them right, Appleby, and it’s only ten minutes to tea-time. If you don’t mind, send out a substitute to field, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking over the umpire’s job yourself till the tea-interval.”
“Of course I will. But, by the way, I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you to allow my next batsman to have a runner as well—the Admiral’s leg has gone.”
“Naturally, Appleby. Let him have a runner by all means, and we’ll get on with the game.”
By the time that the game was restarted there were, therefore, no less than six of the batting side (not counting Merton) on the field of play. George was acting as temporary umpire, Johnny Rashwood was fielding as substitute, the Colonel was batting at one end with Tom as his runner, and the Admiral was at the other end with Clerk in attendance. Monty noticed with amusement that Sir Anstruther, who never gave anything away, had reorganized his field in order to put Johnny at cover-point.
He turned to Cynthia, who was sitting by him.
“This is really a fine sight, Cynthia,” he remarked, “observe the chivalry of both sides, each anxious to assist the other, and watch the gallant Admiral determined to do his best in spite of all physical handicaps. What does he remind you of?”
“A battleship, heavily damaged by enemy fire,” suggested Cynthia.
“Not bad. But I suggest a wooden ship; the Fighting Temeraire or something of that sort:
‘Round the world if need be, and round the world again, With the lame duck lagging, lagging all the way.’”
The Admiral was, indeed, in a somewhat battered condition, though his enthusiasm was undiminished. In the field he had pursued the ball with praiseworthy zeal, but as he was a heavy man, and carried a good deal of fat, he had rapidly become distressed. It was some time since he had taken violent exercise, and his muscles were unequal to the strain put upon them. He had mopped his brow with a large bandana handkerchief, he had creaked in every joint as he lumbered across the field, and, shortly after lunch, in attempting to intercept a ball at mid-on he had pulled a muscle in his thigh. Through the rest of the Besterton innings he had hobbled gallantly, but now, after he had sat still for an hour; his leg had stiffened, and his movements were slow and cumbrous in the extreme. However, he waved his bat cheerfully to the Colonel as he passed him on his progress to the wicket.
“We’re a couple of old crocks, Colonel,” he remarked, “but we’ll show them how to bat, what?”
“I can look after my end,” replied the Colonel with a scowl, and prepared to receive the bowling, for his runner and Clerk had crossed whilst the catch was in the air.
Lees delivered the next ball—a ball which was destined to become famous in the annals of Fincham cricket. It was just outside the off-stump, and the Colonel succeeded in hitting it, for the first time in his innings, with the middle or almost the middle of his bat, into the gap between cover and extra. A certain one or two runs, possibly four if extra-cover could not cut it off on the boundary. But the Colonel had forgotten Johnny Rash-wood at cover. In that position Johnny was, so all the critics said, about as good as Jessop had been at his best. He moved swiftly and low over the ground (as in the case of all the great cover-points his centre of gravity seemed to be low), his anticipation was uncanny, and above all he had the perfect throw for a cover-point, with elbow and hand both apparently below the shoulder, and the flick of the wrist which returned the ball at lightning speed to the wicket. As the Colonel played his shot Johnny moved like a panther to the right, swooped on to the ball with no inch to spare, picked it cleanly off the grass, and was in the same movement poised to hurl it at the wicket. Meantime a confused shout had arisen from the batsmen and their runners. At the post-mortem afterwards no one agreed exactly as to the responsibility of the protagonists. Monty’s account was as likely to be correct as that of any one else. Let it be stated then, without comment. The fierce “Run” must have come from the Colonel’s throat, the thunderous “No” from the Admiral’s. “Come on” was probably Clerk’s contribution, and the anxious “Wait” was that of Tom Appleby. Whosoever the fault both runners charged up the pitch, and met just in time to realize that Johnny had intercepted the ball; they hesitated and were lost.
“Run, Sir!” screamed the Colonel.
“Come back!” bellowed the Admiral.
Caught in a common panic both runners charged madly down the pitch, but both, unfortunately, in the same direction. They arrived neck and neck at the Admiral’s end. A roar of delight from the crowd warned them of their situation; as though governed by some higher power both raced side by side back to the middle of the pitch. Still the Admiral thundered instructions from one end, whilst the Colonel trumpeted inarticulate wrath from the other. The runners had both entirely lost grip of the situation; they stood helpless side by side in the middle of the pitch.
Meantime Johnny Rashwood hesitated. It was his moment, and well he knew it! All day he had suffered from the Colonel, but the time for revenge had come; he had only to flick the ball to the wicket-keeper and the Colonel was out. But was he? Just as he prepared to throw he realized that the two runners were side by side, and it was not at all clear to him which batsman would be out if he threw to the wicket-keeper’s end. And so as they raced together to the bowler’s end and then back to the middle he still held his fire; finally he could hesitate no longer; he flung the ball to the wicket-keeper, who gently removed the bails, and George Appleby’s finger went up.
“Out!” he said—rather unnecessarily.
Both the Colonel and the Admiral, however, stood firm, and each glared at the other. The Admiral spoke first.
“Bad luck, Colonel,” he said, “I’m sorry you’re out; that ends our little partnership.”
The reply was brusque and uncompromising.
“Rubbish, Admiral, it’s you that has just been given out. Ridiculous how these young men lose their heads in a crisis.”
Admiral Findon-Duff was a good-tempered man but he was unused to contradiction. Insensibly he assumed the manner of the quarter-deck.
“I understand, Sir, that the umpire is there to decide such matters. Appleby, which batsman is out?”
“I don’t know,” said George helplessly.
The Colonel snorted. “When I was a boy we were accustomed to accept decisions in a sporting spirit; I’m surprised, Admiral, that you should hesitate to follow the spirit as well as the letter of the law.”
Many years spent in bullying his juniors had made the Colonel careless in his methods, but now he had fairly roused an opponent in every sense worthy of him. For the Admiral, once committed to the quarrel, was determined to see it through. His chest swelled with indignation, and he hobbled down the pitch to confront his opponent.
“Colonel Murcher-Pringle,” he said in a voice hoarse with indignation, “I shall take no notice of that gratuitous insult. But I am the senior officer present, and as such I order you to leave the field. You are out, Sir, and out you shall go.”
The red of the Colonel’s face slowly acquired a purple hue.
“Seniority in the service has nothing whatever to do with the matter. I am the older man, and entitled to some consideration. And, Sir, allow me to remind you that the good of the side must be taken into account. I am firmly set—you have not commenced your innings—it is obvious that, in the interests of the side, you should retire.”
In sober truth the Colonel had made eleven—a four to leg, which he had scored in protecting his body from a fast full pitch (bowled, perhaps, not without malice) and seven singles, all scored behind the wicket with the edge of his bat. But he produced his argument with conviction. The Admiral, however, was ready for him.
“Then, Sir,” he snapped, “as the older man you are probably already exhausted, and in the interests of the side you should make room for younger and fresher players—I feel fit to play a long innings.”
At this moment George Appleby approached the two angry men, in the manner of one anxious to put an end to a dog-fight, but uncertain of the best method to adopt to achieve that result.
“I am going to spin a coin,” he announced in a voice which he hoped sounded firmer to others than it did to himself, “and the one who loses the toss must go.” He spun the coin high into the air, before either had time to raise an objection.
“Tails,” shouted the Colonel.
“Tails,” roared the Admiral, a half-second after him. The coin fell to the ground, the head upwards.
“Aha, I’m afraid you’ve called wrong,” said the Admiral. “Now I hope you will see the propriety of retiring.”
“What the devil do you mean, Sir, you called ‘tails’ yourself as well.”
“I was merely repeating your call to make sure that I had heard you correctly, and that you would not attempt to alter it,” retorted the Admiral with barefaced effrontery.
Johnny Rashwood, convinced at last that the Colonel had met his match, could scarcely forbear to cheer, but George Appleby was making another effort to settle the dispute. He was about to suggest spinning his coin again, when he noticed that Merton had left his end, and come up beside him.
“Consult the other umpire, Sir,” the butler whispered in his ear.
“Ah, yes,” George breathed a sigh of relief. “Merton, are you able to give a decision?”
“Yes, Sir. Colonel Murcher-Pringle is out, Sir.” Like a wounded boar, struck by another spear from a fresh angle, the Colonel turned savagely to face his new enemy.
“What the devil do you mean, Merton, and what business is it of yours? Keep to your end of the ground. Out, how the devil do you mean, out?”
“Run out, Sir,” replied Merton with icy composure. Supported by his butler’s firmness George Appleby made up his mind at last.
“I’m sorry, Colonel, you must go,” he said. “You’ve been given out.”
No more could be said. Purple with rage and indignation the Colonel abandoned the struggle, and commenced his route march to the pavilion, pursued by the comments of his successful adversary, whose good humour had been wholly restored.
“Have a long whisky and soda ready for me at the end of my innings, Colonel,” he shouted. “I shall get pretty hot out here.”
But the Colonel for once had no retort ready.
“I shall waive the two minutes rule, Appleby,” said Sir Anstruther with ponderous humour, as Basil Paraday-Royne walked out from the pavilion.
Basil was a beautiful bat to watch, especially on a hard wicket, and he was desperately keen to impress Cynthia. He met the bowling with the middle of the bat, and contrived, not only to score three beautifully-timed fours but also to keep the bowling to himself for the next two or three overs. It was not, therefore, until the last over before tea that the Admiral took his first ball. To the onlookers it was soon clear that he was a batsman of one shot, and one shot only. Heaving himself up, and advancing his left foot towards mid-on, he struck a mighty blow at each successive ball, irrespective of its length. The exertion was immense, the result incommensurate with the exertion. Three times he made his flail-like movement, three times he smote the air, and three times the ball missed the wicket and was taken by the wicket-keeper. Breathing more and more stertorously the Admiral smote for the fourth time and this time with better success, for the ball went first bounce over the leg boundary. A very short-lived triumph. At the fifth ball the Admiral slogged with even crookeder bat and even more mighty effort; he missed it, and all three stumps were spreadeagled.
“The glorious uncertainty of the game,” said the Admiral, entirely content with his four runs, though in point of fact nothing could have been more certain than his downfall. Together with the fielding side he hobbled in to tea. The score was 86 for 5, and Basil had made 17 not out.
During the cricket week George Appleby always issued invitations broadcast throughout the neighbouring countryside, and there were in consequence sixty or seventy people gathered round the tea tent as the players came in. Among them Monty noticed Lady Dormansland, who had driven over with her party from Critton Park; somewhat to his surprise Robin Hedley was with her.
“That’s new, isn’t it?” he said to Cynthia, who was sitting by him. “I didn’t know that Robin was a friend of Lady D.’s.”
“Don’t be silly, Monty; can you think of any really successful author who has not become a friend of hers? Don’t you know that Pertinacity was the best of bestsellers this year? Be sensible and tell me about the game. Have we any chance of winning?”
“Just a hope, but hardly that. We’re a hundred and ninety behind and there’ll be just two hours’ play after tea; that’s not impossible by any means but it’s quick. It really all depends on the next wicket; Basil is as likely to make a quick hundred as anyone in England, and Rawstone’s a really good player—they might do it. After them any of the rest are good for twenty or thirty, but not much more. It’s a thin chance.”
Lady Dormansland approached them—even as a guest she seemed the perfect hostess.
“Cynthia dear, how delightful to see you, and how nice to think that you are coming to Critton next week. And Monty too. Remember I’m expecting you.”
“As if I should forget. Your invitations are always commands, and I’ve been looking forward to my August visit for weeks. In fact the thought of it is the only thing that has made London bearable through July.”
Lady Dormansland purred.
“For a modern young man, Monty, you have very nice manners,” she remarked archly, and then turned to greet Basil.
“Oh, Basil. I did hope that I should meet you to-day. I want to persuade you to join my little party next week at Critton. All sorts of delightful people, and if you can come it will be quite perfect. Now you really must not disappoint me.”
Basil did not really like Lady Dormansland, whose kindness of heart impressed him much less than her vulgarity. He had, too, a shrewd suspicion that he was asked to Critton less because of his social gifts than because his father sat in the House of Lords. But he enjoyed comfort, and Lady Dormansland was a born hostess—so he hesitated between acceptance and a refusal.
“Cynthia and Monty are both coming,” she continued, “and …”
Basil’s mind was made up at once.
“How too kind of you, Lady Dormansland, I should like it above all things. I’ll be driving down from town, so perhaps I could give Cynthia a lift.”
“You kind man—do. Oh! and that charming man whom you like so much, Robin Hedley—the man whose book you wrote, you know—(how nice and self-sacrificing of you, Basil!) he’s coming again. He’s with me now, and I like him so much that I made him promise to come again next week. That’ll be another inducement, I know.”
Basil winced. So he would have to share Cynthia’s company with Robin. Well, better so than to leave hex to Robin alone.
“Now, Basil,” said Cynthia, “you simply must make a hundred; Monty says we can’t possibly win unless you do. Promise me to play your very best.”
“Of course I will. No efforts shall be spared to give you pleasure. A hundred and fifty if you like.”
“Splendid; I do like confident men, don’t you, Monty? And I shall sit with Mr. Hedley and watch you do it. What heaven.” She smiled in a manner a little reminiscent of the Mona Lisa, and followed Lady Dormansland towards the shade of the trees.
“Damn!” said Basil, picking up his gloves and bat.
Monty could riot altogether suppress a smile.
“And I suppose Cynthia had him asked to Critton,” added Basil thoughtfully.
George Appleby came fussing up to Monty as the Besterton side took the field.
“I can’t make up my mind,” he said, “what to tell Rawstone to do; it’s just possible to win the game still, but only just. He’s a fine player, you know, a very fine player, but not really a quick scorer. I’ve half a mind to tell him to put up the shutters right away, and play for a dr
aw.”
“I’d let him have his head if I were you. Better to have loved and lost, and all that, you know. He’s a real good player, and he may strike form quickly. Basil’s in pretty good fettle, too, and mad keen to get runs.”
“Well if you think so I daresay you’re right. I won’t give him any instructions for the present. I can always send out a message later on.”
The message was never sent. The real good player, having taken his guard and having made a careful survey of the disposition of the field, faced the bowler with apparent confidence. It may have been, as George Appleby afterwards suggested, that he was wondering whether attack or defence was expected of him; it may have been more simply, as Monty declared, that he played back at a half-volley. In any case he was bowled neck and crop by the first ball he received, and retired disconsolately to the pavilion.
Then in the very next over came the final catastrophe. Basil appeared to attempt to push a good length ball off his legs; he missed it; there was a rather half-hearted appeal from the wicket-keeper, and Boone, who covered in sticking plaster had returned to duty, held up his finger. Basil accepted the decision with the worst possible grace. At first he affected not to have heard the appeal or to have seen the decision. When the wicket-keeper pointed out to him that he was out, he advanced down the wicket and patted an imaginary spot a foot outside the leg stump. Then, with a face of thunder, he strode from the wicket and flung himself on the ground beside Cynthia and Robin Hedley.
“Bad luck,” said the latter a little maliciously, “we were all looking forward to that hundred of yours, especially Cynthia.”
An almost murderous glance was the only reply he received, as Basil threw first his bat and then his gloves savagely away from him on the ground.
Fate Cannot Harm Me Page 12
