by Unknown
The next corner was Miss Philips, who immediately opened out to a tempting one from Georgie, and put her away to leg for 3. For this only 2 should have been scored; but long leg, instead of returning the ball, ran smartly with it to the stumps and put it personally into the wicket-keeper’s hands. Miss Philips was now in superb form, and subjected the fielders to a rare piece of leather-hunting. Having driven Miss Mitchell for a brace, she cut another ball quite professionally, for which a couple was notched, and then running after a wide one, and overtaking it in the slips, hit it clandestinely for 3. This brought on Miss Coombes, vice Georgie; but runs still came, and the score stood at 25 after three-quarters of an hour’s play. In stealing a run, however, the batswomen ran into each other, and before they could extricate themselves Miss Hibbert had told Miss Coombes what to do with the ball. (Two for 25.) Miss Epson, who came in second wicket down, did not seem at home with Miss Coombes, and, having slipped her in a fluky manner for I, had her wickets spread-eagled. Thirty was brought on soon afterwards in byes, no long-stop apparently being securable who would do more than hasten alongside the ball. Miss Hibbert was substituted for Miss Mitchell, in the hope of getting another wicket before luncheon; but both batswomen played carefully, never hitting out except when they felt confident of raising the leather high in the air to some place where Mary dear was not fielding.
Play was resumed at 1.45, when the two notouts (Miss Thoms, 7, and Mrs. Tetch, o) faced the bowling of Miss Hibbert and Miss Mitchell. Off the former’s third ball Miss Thoms — who was now playing with more confidence — should have scored a pair; but Mrs. Tetch, making a mistake as to her destination, rushed off in the direction of third man and was run out. (Four for 34.) Further disaster befell the ‘in’ side in the next over, Miss Thoms knocking off the bails with the skirt of her dress three times while turning to see whether Mary was fielding at long leg. She was then given out. Out she went in the jolliest way. They were all like that. Mary caught Miss Curson, and then the only altercation of the match arose, the Maréchal Niel captain coming out to complain that Mary was catching too many, and had no right to catch balls hit in the direction of another fielder. After consultation between the umpires the decision was given in Mary’s favour. The two succeeding batswomen failed to score (also because of Mary). (Six, seven and eight for 35.) Mrs. French, the next woman in, fell just as she was getting well set, and retired evidently under the impression that if you fall you are out. Things were now looking black for the Maréchal Niels, but the last wicket gave a deal of trouble, and a change of bowling had to be again resorted to. Miss Leslie drove, lifted, cut and spanked Miss Hibbert hard for 2, I, 2 and 2, after which the end soon came, owing to Mary. It was charming to see the not-out player who had scored one lifting her cap to the pavilion and the red and yellow roses alike cheering her; but indeed throughout the match the teams played like white men.
The innings of the red rose was opened by Mary dear and Miss Wace, to the bowling of Mrs. French and Miss Leslie. Mary took the first over from Miss Leslie, who has a dangerous delivery, pitching her balls so high that it is extremely difficult to reach them. Mary, however, has a leap that can reach anything, and io soon went up. The scoring now became fast and furious, Mary obtaining a complete mastery of the bowling and becoming so excited that she attempted once to catch herself.
With the score at 20, Mrs. Tetch was tried at the pavilion end, but was only allowed to bowl one over, Mary hitting her so hard that it took five fielders to bring the ball back.
At 26 Miss Wace, whose shoelace had become undone, hit her wickets while retying it, and the next corner got a blob. With two of the best wickets down for 26, the prospects of the ‘in’ side were now less bright. Mary continued to smite them; but was at last dismissed by a cup of cocoa brought to her amid applause, or at any rate by the next ball, which fell into the hands of Miss Leslie, who found it there after looking for it on the ground. After a short interval for what was evidently the most delicious conversation, play was resumed. The result seemed a foregone conclusion with the score at 35 for three wickets; but a remarkable change came over the aspect of the game when Miss Curson was put on to bowl. In her first over she almost did the hat trick, her delivery being so swift that even the slips fled. With only four wickets to fall and 8 runs to get to win there was still a possibility of the Maréchal Niels pulling the match out of the fire, and the fielding now became so smart and clean that Miss Mitchell was thrown out by Mary, who had come on as substitute for a fielder. Bets in gloves were offered and taken by the two fieldswomen nearest me. By byes and singles the score rose slowly to 41, when Miss Mousey was cleverly run out, the stumps being knocked down at both ends. Miss Curson had now gone completely off her form, and Mrs. French was again tried. At 42 Miss Croall would have been run out if Mrs. Tetch had not paused to dust the ball before returning it. This lost the Maréchal Niels the match, for at 5.30 Miss Croall made the winning hit, a dashing blow into the deep, which was caught by Mary but not until the needed I had been run.
The gaiety of them was a new delight on cricket fields. The most successful bowlers were Miss Curson, who took three wickets for 7 runs, and Miss Leslie (three for 14). When all is said and done, however, the match was Mary dear’s, who, I am incredibly informed, is a school-marm and the mother of two. I was also told that she cried on the way home because she thought she was such a rotten catcher. The distribution of the roses of the fallen among the victors was delightfully formal but ended in a gay race to the pavilion. As for myself, I continued to eat cherries; it seemed the right thing to do, in thankfulness for the lingering sun and for merry ladies.”
IT is sobering to reflect that on the sunny afternoon when Anon wrote of ladies at cricket, the most elderly Test Match players of to-day were in their bassinettes. Ladies nowadays, I understand, play in pads, and I almost wish Anon had put the toppers of old on the heads of his two teams. It would have enabled us to visualise them more picturesquely and been another compliment to the Hat.
Cricket had been my joy since I first saw it played in infancy by valiant performers in my native parts, and Anon was not long in London before he found his way to Lord’s. The most charming sight he saw there was at an Eton and Harrow match. Among the dense crowd moving slowly round the ground stood a babe, an Etonian ‘scug,’ more properly attired than any other mortal may hope to be, but a-weary and asleep. In this sleep he stood, buffeted this way and that, but tile, socks, rosette, cane hooked on arm and all continued to function correctly — the perfect little gentleman.
In those days you could sit on the sward and watch the play as at a country match, but now I am such a swell that I look on from the little hotel on the left as you go in. We have got to know each other there, and I call the attendant I buy the ticket from George. Anon went alone to Lord’s at first and did not dare speak to any one, but by his second year he was accompanied by friends, such as Gilmour, already darkly referred to and to be more fully exposed presently, and Marriott Watson with whom Anon afterwards wrote a play. Sometimes the three of them went for long tramps in Surrey, oftenmost to lovely Shere, in which village, ‘over the butcher’s shop,’ Meredith told me he had written one of his novels. On these occasions they talked so much cricket that it began to be felt among them that they were hidden adepts at the game, and an ambition came over them to unveil. This was strengthened by the elderly appearance of the Shere team, whom they decided to challenge after letting them grow one year older. Anon was appointed captain (by chicanery it is said by the survivors), and he thought there would be no difficulty in getting a stout XI. together, literary men being such authorities on the willow. On the eventful day, however, he found out in the railway compartment by which they advanced upon Shere that he had to coach more than one of his players in the finesse of the game: which was the side of the bat you hit with, for instance. In so far as was feasible they also practised in the train. Two of the team were African travellers of renown, Paul du Chaillu of gorilla fame and the much
loved Joseph Thomson of Masailand. When a name for the team was being discussed,
Anon, now grown despondent, asked these two what was the ‘African’ for ‘Heaven help us,’ and they gave him ‘Allahakbar.’ So they decided to call themselves the Allahakbars, afterwards changed with complimentary intention to the Allahakbarries.
The Allahakbarries played a few matches yearly for several summers, that first one being the most ignominious. On the glorious hill-top of Albury where they were overwhelmed that day by Shere, Anon rashly allowed practice bowling, and one of the first balls sent down (by Bernard Partridge) loosened two teeth in the head of the prospective wicket-keeper, who was thus debarred from taking any further part in the game. Anon won the toss, to the indignation of his side, until they learned that this did not necessitate their going in first, and indeed he took the field to teach the Allahakbarries the game, first telling them what to do when the umpire said ‘Over.’ Unfortunately Shere had a horribly competent left-hander who at once set about smiting the bowling, and as this entailed constant changes in the field besides those ordered by the umpires the less gifted of the Allahakbarries decided that their captain knew no more about the rules than themselves. There were many other painful incidents, among them the conduct of du Chaillu, who stole away every few minutes and had to be pursued and brought back in custody.
It is immaterial now how many runs Shere made, but the score was a goodly one, and Partridge could do nothing to the teeth of any of them. At last, however, they were out, and the once long-looked-for time arrived for the Allahakbarries to go in. There was no longer a thirsty desire on the part of any of the team to open the innings, but in its place a passionate determination that this honour should be the captain’s. I forget whether he yielded to the general wish, but at all events he ordered Marriott Watson to be No. 2, because all the time they were in the train, when others trembled, Marriott had kept saying gamely, ‘Intellect always tells in the end.’ For a lovely moment we thought it was to tell here, for he hit his first ball so hard that the Allahakbarries were at the beginning of a volley of cheers when they saw him coming out, caught at point by the curate. The captain amassed two. One man who partnered him was somewhat pedantic and before taking centre (as they were all instructed to do) signed to Anon that he had a secret to confide. It proved to be ‘Should I strike the ball to however small an extent I shall run with considerable velocity.’
He did not have to run. The top scorer (as he tells to this day) was Gilmour, who swears he made five. The total was eleven.
The next time the Allahakbarries played Shere they won because they arrived two men short. They scoured the country in a wagonette, seeking to complete their team, and took with them, despite his protests, an artist whom they found in a field painting cows. They were still more fortunate in finding a soldier sitting with two ladies outside a pub. He agreed to accompany them if they would take the ladies also, and all three were taken. This unknown was the Allahakbarrie who carried the team that day to victory, and the last they saw of him he was sitting outside another pub with another two ladies.
Soon it became clear to Anon that the more distinguished as authors his men were the worse they played. Conan Doyle was the chief exception to this depressing rule, but after all, others did occasionally have their day, as when A. E. W. Mason, fast bowler, ‘ran through’ the opposing side, though one never knew in advance whether he was more likely to send the bails flying or to hit square leg in the stomach. Augustine Birrell once hit so hard that he smashed the bat of Anon, which had been kindly lent him, and instead of grieving he called out gloriously, ‘Fetch me some more bats.’ Maurice Hewlett could sometimes look well set just before he came out. E. V. Lucas had (unfortunately) a style. Will Meredith would have excelled in the long field but for his way of shouting ‘Boundary’ when a fast ball approached him. Owen Seaman knew (or so he said) how to cut. Henry Ford was, even more than Tate, an unlucky bowler. Jerome once made two fours. Charles Whibley threw in unerringly but in the wrong direction. You should have seen Charles Furze as wicket-keeper, but you would have had to be quick about it as Anon had so soon to try some one else. Gilmour could at least continue to prate about his five. The team had no tail, that is to say, they would have done just as well had they begun at the other end. Yet when strengthened in the weaker points of their armour, namely in batting and bowling, by outsiders surreptitiously introduced, they occasionally astounded the tented field, as when by mistake they challenged Esher, a club of renown, and beat them by hundreds; an Allahakbarrie (whose literary qualifications I cannot remember) notching a century. Anon never would play Esher again, though they begged him to do so almost on bended knee.
Rivalry ran at its noblest when the Allahakbarries had their bouts with Broadway in Worcestershire, the scene of contests and suppers of Homeric splendour, at which fair ladies looked sympathetic as their heroes told of their deeds of long ago, including Gilmour’s five. It was on such an occasion that Anon presented them with their Blues while Broadway’s rafters rang. A. F. de Navarro and Turley Smith, both well-beloved, were the nominal captains of Broadway, but behind them stood the far more threatening figure of Worcestershire’s loveliest resident, Madame de Navarro, the famous Mary Anderson. Turley cared little which side won, nor did we, but far otherwise was it with that implacable one, who never (such is the glory of woman) could follow the game, despite deep study, and always called it ‘crickets.’ She had however a powerful way of wandering round the field with the Allahakbarries’ top scorer, who when he came back would tell Anon sheepishly that he had promised to play for her in the second innings.
Anon twice made little books about the ‘Broadway Week,’ the first consisting of four pages, but the second was swollen to thirty, just as Wisden grows and grows. They were privately printed in tiny editions, and are rareties now, for most of them have gone for ever with the sound of the Allahakbarrie bat and ball. The first proudly acclaimed its vice-presidents,
BEAU AUSTIN, ESQ.
TERENCE MULVANEY, ESQ.
OLD MEL, ESQ.
SERGEANT TROY, ESQ.
Of the creators of these officials only one was himself a cricketer, Mr. Meredith, and by his request Anon used to send him telegraphic communications about the state of the game, as he said he could not wait till morning. The second booklet was adorned with sketches, ‘ Broadway on a Match Day,’ by Lindsay M’Arthur, in which not a dog or chicken shows, all live things being at the match; ‘The Two Captains,’ by Herman Herkomer, in which Madame de Navarro has just bowled Anon neck and crop; ‘An Indispensable Part of their Luggage,’ by E. T. Reed (a crate of ducks); Henry Ford’s idea of ‘How Partridge Sleeps Now’ (in pads); and ‘A Dream of Alfred Parsons by Himself’ (in which he gets his hundred). There are also photographs, one of Birrell and Gilmour being compelled to go in first (at the end of a rope), and another, still more sinister, of Anon preparing a spot to suit his bowling. In the letterpress no member of the team escapes Anon’s censure, and the whole (‘Dedicated to our dear enemy, Mary de Navarro’) ends with Owen Seaman’s ‘Ode to Himself on Making the Winning Hit’: —
Bloody the battle, and the sun was hot,
When on our ranks there fell an awful rot,
One bearded warrior, playing like a Blue,
Had made a prehistoric swipe for two,
When three, his fellows, noted for their pluck, Through inadvertence got a paltry duck.
Upon the warpath, which was far from flat,
The foemen’s champion had secured a hat,
And one might hear the dropping of a pin When you, heroic sailor-soul, walked in.
Virgin, and chosen for your facial oddity,
In you your captain found a rare commodity, Omitting not what other men omitted,
You went to make the winning hit and hit it.
Despite the picture of her capturing the Allahakbarrie captain’s wicket, let it be put on record that Madame de Navarro herself never wielded the willow. She, however, w
atched avidly every ball sent down, and it is remembered how, in a certain single-innings match, when Anon said to her that she need watch no more as his side had already passed the Broadway score, she replied hopefully, ‘Yes, but you have still several men to go in.’ In the photograph of our Rosalind she is not inditing couplets to Orlando, but obviously drawing up a score for Anon’s discomfiture. In their love for her the Allahakbarries tried to let her side win, but we were so accomplished it could not be done. I take back all my aspersions on the team. I remember now that we always won. The Allahakbarries were invincible.
CHAPTER IX
“THE CAPTAIN OF THE HOUSE” — EXPOSURE OF ANON
“WHEN Retrousy was nearly fourteen he wrote to us from school that there was a possibility (‘but don’t count on it,’ he said) of his bringing the captain of the house home with him for a fraction of the holidays. We had little conception at the moment of the tremendous import of this. The captain we only knew by report as the ‘person’ who lifted leg-bails over the pavilion and was said to have made a joke to mi’tutor’s wife. By and by we understood the distinction that was to be conferred upon us. Retrousy instructed his mother to send the captain a formal invitation addressed ‘J. Rawlins, Esq.’ This was done, but in such a way that Retrousy feared we might lose our illustrious visitor. ‘You shouldn’t have asked him for more than the four days,’ Retrousy wrote, ‘as he has promised a heap of persons, and there would have been no chance of getting him at all if his people had not been in India.’ However, there came a polite note from the captain, saying that 106 if he could manage it he would be charmed. In this letter he referred to Retrousy as his young friend. Retrousy wrote shortly afterwards asking his sister Grizel to send him her photograph. ‘If you haven’t one,’ he added, ‘what is the colour of your eyes and what is your complexion?’ Grizel is eighteen, which is also, I believe, the age of J. Rawlins. We concluded that the captain had been sounding Retrousy about the attractions our home could offer him; but Grizel neither sent her photograph nor any account of her personal appearance. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Retrousy wrote back; ‘I told him you were dark and thickish.’ Grizel is fair, and a wand, but her brother had not noticed this.
