Tales of St. Austin's

by P. G. Wodehouse

  [15]

  NOW, TALKING ABOUT CRICKET--

  In the days of yore, when these white hairs were brown--or was itblack? At any rate, they were not white--and I was at school, it wasalways my custom, when Fate obliged me to walk to school with a casualacquaintance, to whom I could not unburden my soul of those profoundthoughts which even then occupied my mind, to turn the strugglingconversation to the relative merits of cricket and football.

  'Do you like cricket better than footer?' was my formula. Now, thoughat the time, in order to save fruitless argument, I always agreed withmy companion, and praised the game he praised, in the innermost depthsof my sub-consciousness, cricket ranked a long way in front of allother forms of sport. I may be wrong. More than once in my career ithas been represented to me that I couldn't play cricket for nuts. Mycaptain said as much when I ran him out in _the_ match of theseason after he had made forty-nine and looked like stopping. A bowlingacquaintance heartily endorsed his opinion on the occasion of mymissing three catches off him in one over. This, however, I attributeto prejudice, for the man I missed ultimately reached his century,mainly off the deliveries of my bowling acquaintance. I pointed out tohim that, had I accepted any one of the three chances, we should havemissed seeing the prettiest century made on the ground that season; buthe was one of those bowlers who sacrifice all that is beautiful in thegame to mere wickets. A sordid practice.

  Later on, the persistence with which my county ignored my claims toinclusion in the team, convinced me that I must leave cricket fame toothers. True, I did figure, rather prominently, too, in one countymatch. It was at the Oval, Surrey _v_. Middlesex. How well Iremember that occasion! Albert Trott was bowling (Bertie we used tocall him); I forget who was batting. Suddenly the ball came soaring inmy direction. I was not nervous. I put down the sandwich I was eating,rose from my seat, picked the ball up neatly, and returned it withunerring aim to a fieldsman who was waiting for it with becomingdeference. Thunders of applause went up from the crowded ring.

  That was the highest point I ever reached in practical cricket. But, asthe historian says of Mr Winkle, a man may be an excellent sportsman intheory, even if he fail in practice. That's me. Reader (if any), haveyou ever played cricket in the passage outside your study with awalking-stick and a ball of paper? That's the game, my boy, for testingyour skill of wrist and eye. A century _v_. the M.C.C. is wellenough in its way, but give me the man who can watch 'em in a narrowpassage, lit only by a flickering gas-jet--one for every hit, four ifit reaches the end, and six if it goes downstairs full-pitch, any pacebowling allowed. To make double figures in such a match is to tastelife. Only you had better do your tasting when the House-master is outfor the evening.

  I like to watch the young cricket idea shooting. I refer to the lowergames, where 'next man in' umpires with his pads on, his loins girt,and a bat in his hand. Many people have wondered why it is that nobudding umpire can officiate unless he holds a bat. For my part, Ithink there is little foundation for the theory that it is part of asemi-religious rite, on the analogy of the Freemasons' specialhandshake and the like. Nor do I altogether agree with the authoritieswho allege that man, when standing up, needs something as a prop orsupport. There is a shadow of reason, I grant, in this supposition, butafter years of keen observation I am inclined to think that the umpirekeeps his bat by him, firstly, in order that no unlicensed hand shallcommandeer it unbeknownst, and secondly, so that he shall be ready togo in directly his predecessor is out. There is an ill-concealedrestiveness about his movements, as he watches the batsmen getting set,that betrays an overwrought spirit. Then of a sudden one of them playsa ball on to his pad. '_'s that_?' asks the bowler, with anoverdone carelessness. 'Clean out. Now _I'm_ in,' and already heis rushing up the middle of the pitch to take possession. When he getsto the wicket a short argument ensues. 'Look here, you idiot, I hit ithard.' 'Rot, man, out of the way.' '!!??!' 'Look here, Smith,_are_ you going to dispute the umpire's decision?' Chorus offieldsmen: 'Get out, Smith, you ass. You've been given out years ago.'Overwhelmed by popular execration, Smith reluctantly departs,registering in the black depths of his soul a resolution to take on theumpireship at once, with a view to gaining an artistic revenge bygiving his enemy run out on the earliest possible occasion. There is aprimeval _insouciance_ about this sort of thing which is asrefreshing to a mind jaded with the stiff formality of professionalumpires as a cold shower-bath.

  I have made a special study of last-wicket men; they are divided intotwo classes, the deplorably nervous, or the outrageously confident. Thenervous largely outnumber the confident. The launching of a last-wicketman, when there are ten to make to win, or five minutes left to make adraw of a losing game, is fully as impressive a ceremony as thelaunching of the latest battleship. An interested crowd harasses thepoor victim as he is putting on his pads. 'Feel in a funk?' asks sometactless friend. 'N-n-no, norrabit.' 'That's right,' says the captainencouragingly, 'bowling's as easy as anything.'

  This cheers the wretch up a little, until he remembers suddenly thatthe captain himself was distinctly at sea with the despised trundling,and succumbed to his second ball, about which he obviously had no ideawhatever. At this he breaks down utterly, and, if emotional, will sobinto his batting glove. He is assisted down the Pavilion steps, andreaches the wickets in a state of collapse. Here, very probably, areaction will set in. The sight of the crease often comes as a positiverelief after the vague terrors experienced in the Pavilion.

  The confident last-wicket man, on the other hand, goes forth to battlewith a light quip upon his lips. The lot of a last-wicket batsman, witha good eye and a sense of humour, is a very enviable one. Theincredulous disgust of the fast bowler, who thinks that at last he maysafely try that slow head-ball of his, and finds it lifted geniallyover the leg-boundary, is well worth seeing. I remember in one schoolmatch, the last man, unfortunately on the opposite side, did this threetimes in one over, ultimately retiring to a fluky catch in the slipswith forty-one to his name. Nervousness at cricket is a curious thing.As the author of _Willow the King_, himself a county cricketer,has said, it is not the fear of getting out that causes funk. It is asort of intangible _je ne sais quoi_. I trust I make myself clear.Some batsmen are nervous all through a long innings. With others thefeeling disappears with the first boundary.

  A young lady--it is, of course, not polite to mention her age to theminute, but it ranged somewhere between eight and ten--was taken to seea cricket match once. After watching the game with interest for sometime, she gave out this profound truth: 'They all attend specially toone man.' It would be difficult to sum up the causes of funk morelucidly and concisely. To be an object of interest is sometimespleasant, but when ten fieldsmen, a bowler, two umpires, and countlessspectators are eagerly watching your every movement, the thing becomesembarrassing.

  That is why it is, on the whole, preferable to be a cricket spectatorrather than a cricket player. No game affords the spectator such uniqueopportunities of exerting his critical talents. You may have noticedthat it is always the reporter who knows most about the game. Everyone,moreover, is at heart a critic, whether he represent the majesty of thePress or not. From the lady of Hoxton, who crushes her friend's latestconfection with the words, 'My, wot an 'at!' down to that lowest classof all, the persons who call your attention (in print) to the sinistermeaning of everything Clytemnestra says in _The Agamemnon_, thewhole world enjoys expressing an opinion of its own about something.

  In football you are vouchsafed fewer chances. Practically all you cando is to shout 'off-side' whenever an opponent scores, which affordsbut meagre employment for a really critical mind. In cricket, however,nothing can escape you. Everything must be done in full sight ofeverybody. There the players stand, without refuge, simply invitingcriticism.

  It is best, however, not to make one's remarks too loud. If you do, youcall down upon yourself the attention of others, and are yourselfcriticized. I remember once, when I was of tender years, watching aschool match, and one of the batsmen lifte
d a ball clean over thePavilion. This was too much for my sensitive and critical young mind.'On the carpet, sir,' I shouted sternly, well up in the treble clef,'keep 'em on the carpet.' I will draw a veil. Suffice it to say that Ibecame a sport and derision, and was careful for the future tocriticize in a whisper. But the reverse by no means crushed me. Evennow I take a melancholy pleasure in watching school matches, and sayingSo-and-So will make quite a fair _school-boy_ bat in time, but hemust get rid of that stroke of his on the off, and that shockingleg-hit, and a few of those _awful_ strokes in the slips, but thaton the whole, he is by no means lacking in promise. I find itrefreshing. If, however, you feel compelled not merely to look on, butto play, as one often does at schools where cricket is compulsory, itis impossible to exaggerate the importance of white boots. The game youplay before you get white boots is not cricket, but a weak imitation.The process of initiation is generally this. One plays in shoes for afew years with the most dire result, running away to square leg fromfast balls, and so on, till despair seizes the soul. Then an angel inhuman form, in the very effective disguise of the man at the schoolboot-shop, hints that, for an absurdly small sum in cash, you maybecome the sole managing director of a pair of _white buckskin_boots with real spikes. You try them on. They fit, and the initiationis complete. You no longer run away from fast balls. You turn themneatly off to the boundary. In a word, you begin for the first time toplay the game, the whole game, and nothing but the game.

  There are misguided people who complain that cricket is becoming abusiness more than a game, as if that were not the most fortunate thingthat could happen. When it ceases to be a mere business and becomes areligious ceremony, it will be a sign that the millennium is at hand.The person who regards cricket as anything less than a business is nofit companion, gentle reader, for the likes of you and me. As long asthe game goes in his favour the cloven hoof may not show itself. Butgive him a good steady spell of leather-hunting, and you will know himfor what he is, a mere _dilettante_, a dabbler, in a word, a worm,who ought never to be allowed to play at all. The worst of this specieswill sometimes take advantage of the fact that the game in which theyhappen to be playing is only a scratch game, upon the result of whichno very great issues hang, to pollute the air they breathe with verbal,and the ground they stand on with physical, buffooneries. Many a timehave I, and many a time have you, if you are what I take you for, shedtears of blood, at the sight of such. Careless returns, overthrows--butenough of a painful subject. Let us pass on.

  I have always thought it a better fate for a man to be born a bowlerthan a bat. A batsman certainly gets a considerable amount of innocentfun by snicking good fast balls just off his wicket to the ropes, andstanding stolidly in front against slow leg-breaks. These things aregood, and help one to sleep peacefully o' nights, and enjoy one'smeals. But no batsman can experience that supreme emotion of 'somethingattempted, something done', which comes to a bowler when a ball pitchesin a hole near point's feet, and whips into the leg stump. It is onecrowded second of glorious life. Again, the words 'retired hurt' on thescore-sheet are far more pleasant to the bowler than the batsman. Thegroan of a batsman when a loose ball hits him full pitch in the ribs isgenuine. But the 'Awfully-sorry-old-chap-it-slipped' of the bowler isnot. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as Mr Chamberlain might say,and if he cannot hit the wicket, he is perfectly contented with hittingthe man. In my opinion, therefore, the bowler's lot, in spite ofbilliard table wickets, red marl, and such like inventions of adegenerate age, is the happier one.

  And here, glowing with pride of originality at the thought that I havewritten of cricket without mentioning Alfred Mynn or Fuller Pilch, Iheave a reminiscent sigh, blot my MS., and thrust my pen back into itssheath.

  [16]

  THE TOM BROWN QUESTION

  The man in the corner had been trying to worry me into a conversationfor some time. He had asked me if I objected to having the window open.He had said something rather bitter about the War Office, and had hopedI did not object to smoking. Then, finding that I stuck to my bookthrough everything, he made a fresh attack.

  'I see you are reading _Tom Brown's Schooldays_,' he said.

  This was a plain and uninteresting statement of fact, and appeared tome to require no answer. I read on.

  'Fine book, sir.'

  'Very.'

  'I suppose you have heard of the Tom Brown Question?'

  I shut my book wearily, and said I had not.

  'It is similar to the Homeric Question. You have heard of that, Isuppose?'

  I knew that there was a discussion about the identity of the author ofthe Iliad. When at school I had been made to take down notes on thesubject until I had grown to loathe the very name of Homer.

  'You see,' went on my companion, 'the difficulty about _Tom Brown'sSchooldays_ is this. It is obvious that part one and part two werewritten by different people. You admit that, I suppose?'

  'I always thought Mr Hughes wrote the whole book.'

  'Dear me, not really? Why, I thought everyone knew that he only wrotethe first half. The question is, who wrote the second. I know, but Idon't suppose ten other people do. No, sir.'

  'What makes you think he didn't write the second part?'

  'My dear sir, just read it. Read part one carefully, and then read parttwo. Why, you can see in a minute.'

  I said I had read the book three times, but had never noticed anythingpeculiar about it, except that the second half was not nearly sointeresting as the first.

  'Well, just tell me this. Do you think the same man created East andArthur? Now then.'

  I admitted that it was difficult to understand such a thing.

  'There was a time, of course,' continued my friend, 'when everybodythought as you do. The book was published under Hughes's name, and itwas not until Professor Burkett-Smith wrote his celebrated monograph onthe subject that anybody suspected a dual, or rather a composite,authorship. Burkett-Smith, if you remember, based his arguments on twovery significant points. The first of these was a comparison betweenthe football match in the first part and the cricket match in thesecond. After commenting upon the truth of the former description, hewent on to criticize the latter. Do you remember that match? You do?Very well. You recall how Tom wins the toss on a plumb wicket?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then with the usual liberality of young hands (I quote from the book)he put the M.C.C. in first. Now, my dear sir, I ask you, would a schoolcaptain do that? I am young, says one of Gilbert's characters, theGrand Duke, I think, but, he adds, I am not so young as that. Tom mayhave been young, but would he, _could_ he have been young enoughto put his opponents in on a true wicket, when he had won the toss?Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?'

  'Never,' I shouted, with enthusiasm.

  'But that's nothing to what he does afterwards. He permits, he actuallysits there and permits, comic songs and speeches to be made during theluncheon interval. Comic Songs! Do you hear me, sir? COMIC SONGS!! Andthis when he wanted every minute of time he could get to save thematch. Would the Tom Brown of part one have done such a thing?'

  'Never, never.' I positively shrieked the words this time.

  'Burkett-Smith put that point very well. His second argument is foundedon a single remark of Tom's, or rather--'

  'Or rather,' I interrupted, fiercely,' or rather of the wretchedmiserable--'

  'Contemptible,' said my friend.

  'Despicable, scoundrelly, impostor who masquerades as Tom in the secondhalf of the book.'

  'Exactly,' said he. 'Thank you very much. I have often thought the samemyself. The remark to which I refer is that which he makes to themaster while he is looking on at the M.C.C. match. In passing, sir,might I ask you whether the Tom Brown of part one would have been onspeaking terms with such a master?'

  I shook my head violently. I was too exhausted to speak.

  'You remember the remark? The master commented on the fact that Arthuris a member of the first eleven. I forget Tom's exact words, but thesubs
tance of them is this, that, though on his merits Arthur was notworth his place, he thought it would do him such a lot of good being inthe team. Do I make myself plain, sir? He--thought--it--would--do--him--such--a--lot--of--good--being--in--the--team!!!'

  There was a pause. We sat looking at one another, forming silently withour lips the words that still echoed through the carriage.

  'Burkett-Smith,' continued my companion, 'makes a great deal of thatremark. His peroration is a very fine piece of composition. "Whether(concludes he) the captain of a school cricket team who could ownspontaneously to having been guilty of so horrible, so terrible an actof favouritismical jobbery, who could sit unmoved and see his teambeing beaten in the most important match of the season (and, indeed,for all that the author tells us it may have been the only match of theseason), for no other reason than that he thought a first eleven capwould prove a valuable tonic to an unspeakable personal friend of his,whether, I say, the Tom Brown who acted thus could have been the TomBrown who headed the revolt of the fags in part one, is a questionwhich, to the present writer, offers no difficulties. I await withconfidence the verdict of a free, enlightened, and conscientious publicof my fellow-countrymen." Fine piece of writing, that, sir?'

  'Very,' I said.

  'That pamphlet, of course, caused a considerable stir. Opposing partiesbegan to be formed, some maintaining that Burkett-Smith was entirelyright, others that he was entirely wrong, while the rest said he mighthave been more wrong if he had not been so right, but that if he hadnot been so mistaken he would probably have been a great deal morecorrect. The great argument put forward by the supporters of what I maycall the "One Author" view, was, that the fight in part two could nothave been written by anyone except the author of the fight withFlashman in the school-house hall. And this is the point which has ledto all the discussion. Eliminate the Slogger Williams episode, and thewhole of the second part stands out clearly as the work of anotherhand. But there is one thing that seems to have escaped the notice ofeverybody.'

  'Yes?' I said.

  He leant forward impressively, and whispered. 'Only the actual fight isthe work of the genuine author. The interference of Arthur has beeninterpolated!'

  'By Jove!' I said. 'Not really?'

  'Yes. Fact, I assure you. Why, think for a minute. Could a man capableof describing a fight as that fight is described, also be capable ofstopping it just as the man the reader has backed all through iswinning? It would be brutal. Positively brutal, sir!'

  'Then, how do you explain it?'

  'A year ago I could not have told you. Now I can. For five years I havebeen unravelling the mystery by the aid of that one clue. Listen. WhenMr Hughes had finished part one, he threw down his pen and started toWales for a holiday. He had been there a week or more, when one day, ashe was reclining on the peak of a mountain looking down a deepprecipice, he was aware of a body of men approaching him. They weredressed soberly in garments of an inky black. Each had side whiskers,and each wore spectacles. "Mr Hughes, I believe?" said the leader, asthey came up to him.

  '"Your servant, sir," said he.

  '"We have come to speak to you on an important matter, Mr Hughes. Weare the committee of the Secret Society For Putting WholesomeLiterature Within The Reach Of Every Boy, And Seeing That He Gets It.I, sir, am the president of the S.S.F.P.W.L.W.T.R.O.E.B.A.S.T.H.G.I."He bowed.

  '"Really, sir, I--er--don't think I have the pleasure," began MrHughes.

  '"You shall have the pleasure, sir. We have come to speak to you aboutyour book. Our representative has read Part I, and reports unfavourablyupon it. It contains no moral. There are scenes of violence, and yourhero is far from perfect."

  '"I think you mistake my object," said Mr Hughes; "Tom is a boy, not apatent medicine. In other words, he is not supposed to be perfect."

  '"Well, I am not here to bandy words. The second part of your bookmust be written to suit the rules of our Society. Do you agree, orshall we throw you over that precipice?"

  '"Never. I mean, I don't agree."

  '"Then we must write it for you. Remember, sir, that you will beconstantly watched, and if you attempt to write that second partyourself--"' (he paused dramatically). 'So the second part was writtenby the committee of the Society. So now you know.'

  'But,' said I, 'how do you account for the fight with SloggerWilliams?'

  'The president relented slightly towards the end, and consented to MrHughes inserting a chapter of his own, on condition that the Societyshould finish it. And the Society did. See?'

  'But--'

  'Ticket.'

  'Eh?'

  'Ticket, please, sir.'

  I looked up. The guard was standing at the open door. My companion hadvanished.

  'Guard,' said I, as I handed him my ticket, 'where's the gentleman whotravelled up with me?'

  'Gentleman, sir? I haven't seen nobody.'

  'Not a man in tweeds with red hair? I mean, in tweeds and owning redhair.'

  'No, sir. You've been alone in the carriage all the way up. Must havedreamed it, sir.'

  Possibly I did.