Mike had then made a hundred and three.
As Mike was taking off his pads in the pavilion, Adair came up.
‘Why did you say you didn’t play cricket?’ he asked abruptly.
When one has been bowling the whole morning, and bowling well, without the slightest success, one is inclined to be abrupt.
Mike finished unfastening an obstinate strap. Then he looked up.
‘I didn’t say anything of the kind. I said I wasn’t going to play here. There’s a difference. As a matter of fact, I was in the Wrykyn team before I came here. Three years.’
Adair was silent for a moment.
‘Will you play for us against the Old Sedleighans tomorrow?’ he said at length.
Mike tossed his pads into his bag and got up.
‘No, thanks.’
There was a silence.
‘Above it, I suppose?’
‘Not a bit. Not up to it. I shall want a lot of coaching at that end net of yours before I’m fit to play for Sedleigh.’
There was another pause.
‘Then you won’t play?’ asked Adair.
‘I’m not keeping you, am I?’ said Mike, politely.
It was remarkable what a number of members of Outwood’s house appeared to cherish a personal grudge against Mr Downing. It had been that master’s somewhat injudicious practice for many years to treat his own house as a sort of Chosen People. Of all masters, the most unpopular is he who by the silent tribunal of a school is convicted of favouritism. And the dislike deepens if it is a house which he favours and not merely individuals. On occasions when boys in his own house and boys from other houses were accomplices and partners in wrong-doing, Mr Downing distributed his thunderbolts unequally, and the school noticed it. The result was that not only he himself, but also – which was rather unfair – his house, too, had acquired a good deal of unpopularity.
The general consensus of opinion in Outwood’s during the luncheon interval was that having got Downing’s up a tree, they would be fools not to make the most of the situation.
Barnes’s remark that he supposed, unless anything happened and wickets began to fall a bit faster, they had better think of declaring somewhere about half-past three or four, was met with a storm of opposition.
‘Declare!’ said Robinson. ‘Great Scott, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘Declare!’ Stone’s voice was almost a wail of indignation. ‘I never saw such a chump.’
‘They’ll be rather sick if we don’t, won’t they?’ suggested Barnes.
‘Sick! I should think they would,’ said Stone. ‘That’s just the gay idea. Can’t you see that by a miracle we’ve got a chance of getting a jolly good bit of our own back against those Downing’s ticks? What we’ve got to do is to jolly well keep them in the field all day if we can, and be jolly glad it’s so beastly hot. If they lose about a dozen pounds each through sweating about in the sun after Jackson’s drives, perhaps they’ll stick on less side about things in general in future. Besides, I want an innings against that bilge of old Downing’s, if I can get it.’
‘So do I,’ said Robinson.
‘If you declare, I swear I won’t field. Nor will Robinson.’
‘Rather not.’
‘Well, I won’t then,’ said Barnes unhappily. ‘Only you know they’re rather sick already.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Stone with a wide grin. ‘They’ll be a lot sicker before we’ve finished.’
And so it came about that that particular Mid-term Service day match made history. Big scores had often been put up on Mid-term Service day. Games had frequently been one-sided. But it had never happened before in the annals of the school that one side, going in early in the morning, had neither completed its innings nor declared it closed when stumps were drawn at 6.30. In no previous Sedleigh match, after a full day’s play, had the pathetic words ‘Did not bat’ been written against the whole of one of the contending teams.
These are the things which mark epochs.
Play was resumed at 2.15. For a quarter of an hour Mike was comparatively quiet. Adair, fortified by food and rest, was bowling really well, and his first half-dozen overs had to be watched carefully. But the wicket was too good to give him a chance, and Mike, playing hiself in again, proceeded to get to business once more. Bowlers came and went. Adair pounded away at one end with brief intervals between the attacks. Mr. Downing took a couple more overs, in one of which a horse, passing in the road, nearly had its useful life cut suddenly short. Change-bowlers of various actions and paces, each weirder and more futile than the last, tried their luck. But still the first-wicket stand continued.
The bowling of a house team is all head and no body. The first pair probably have some idea of length and break. The first-change pair are poor. And the rest, the small-change, are simply the sort of things one sees in dreams after a heavy supper, or when one is out without one’s gun.
Time, mercifully, generally breaks up a big stand at cricket before the field has suffered too much, and that is what happened now. At four o’clock, when the score stood at two hundred and twenty for no wicket, Barnes, greatly daring, smote lustily at a rather wide half-volley and was caught at short-slip for thirty-three. He retired blushfully to the pavilion, amidst applause, and Stone came out.
As Mike had then made a hundred and eighty-seven, it was assumed by the field, that directly he had topped his second century, the closure would be applied and their ordeal finished. There was almost a sigh of relief when frantic cheering from the crowd told that the feat had been accomplished. The fieldsmen clapped in quite an indulgent sort of way, as who should say, ‘Capital, capital. And now let’s start our innings.’ Some even began to edge towards the pavilion.
But the next ball was bowled, and the next over, and the next after that, and still Barnes made no sign. (The conscience-stricken captain of Outwood’s was, as a matter of fact, being practically held down by Robinson and other ruffians by force.)
A grey dismay settled on the field.
The bowling had now become almost unbelievably bad. Lobs were being tried, and Stone, nearly weeping with pure joy, was playing an innings of the How-to-brighten-cricket type. He had an unorthodox style, but an excellent eye, and the road at this period of the game became absolutely unsafe for pedestrians and traffic.
Mike’s pace had become slower, as was only natural, but his score, too, was mounting steadily.
‘This is foolery,’ snapped Mr Downing, as the three hundred and fifty went up on the board. ‘Barnes!’ he called.
There was no reply. A committee of three was at that moment engaged in sitting on Barnes’s head in the first eleven changing-room, in order to correct a more than usually feverish attack of conscience.
‘Barnes!’
‘Please, sir.’ said Stone, some species of telepathy telling him what was detaining his captain. ‘I think Barnes must have left the field. He has probably gone over to the house to fetch something.’
‘This is absurd. You must declare your innings closed. The game has become a farce.’
‘Declare! Sir, we can’t unless Barnes does. He might be awfully annoyed if we did anything like that without consulting him.’
‘Absurd.’
‘He’s very touchy sir.’
‘It is perfect foolery.’
‘I think Jenkins is just going to bowl, sir.’
Mr Downing walked moodily to his place.
In a neat wooden frame in the senior day-room at Outwood’s, just above the mantelpiece, there was on view, a week later, a slip of paper.
The writing on it was as follows:
OUTWOOD’S v. DOWNING’S
Outwood’s. First innings
J.P. Barnes, c. Hammond, b. Hassall
33
M. Jackson, not out
277
W.J. Stone, not out
124
Extras
37
—
Total (for one w
icket)
471
Downing’s did not bat.
At Lord’s
MIKE GOT TO Lord’s just as the umpires moved out into the field. He raced round to the pavilion. Joe met him on the stairs.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘No hurry. We’ve won the toss. I’ve put you in fourth wicket.’
‘Right ho,’ said Mike. ‘Glad we haven’t to field just yet.’
‘We oughtn’t to have to field today if we don’t chuck our wickets away.’
‘Good wicket?’
‘Like a billiard-table. I’m glad you were able to come. Have any difficulty in getting away?’
Joe Jackson’s knowledge of the workings of a bank was of the slightest. He himself had never, since he left Oxford, been in a position where there were obstacles to getting off to play in first-class cricket. By profession he was agent to a sporting baronet whose hobby was the cricket of the county, and so, far from finding any difficulty in playing for the county, he was given to understand by his employer that that was his chief duty. It never occurred to him that Mike might find his bank less amenable in the matter of giving leave. His only fear, when he rang Mike up that morning, had been that this might be a particularly busy day at the New Asiatic Bank. If there was no special rush of work, he took it for granted that Mike would simply go to the manager, ask for leave to play in the match, and be given it with a beaming smile.
Mike did not answer the question, but asked one on his own account.
‘How did you happen to be short?’ he said.
‘It was rotten luck. It was like this. We were altering our team after the Sussex match, to bring in Ballard, Keene, and Willis. They couldn’t get down to Brighton, as the ’Varsity had a match, but there was nothing on for them in the last half of the week, so they’d promised to roll up.’
Ballard, Keene, and Willis were members of the Cambridge team, all very capable performers and much in demand by the county, when they could get away to play for it.
‘Well?’ said Mike.
‘Well, we all came up by train from Brighton last night. But these three asses had arranged to motor down from Cambridge early today, and get here in time for the start. What happens? Why, Willis, who fancies himself as a chauffeur, undertakes to do the driving; and naturally, being an absolute rot-ter, goes and smashes up the whole concern just outside St Albans. The first thing I knew of it was when I got to Lord’s at half-past ten, and found a wire waiting for me to say that they were all three of them crocked, and couldn’t possibly play. I tell you, it was a bit of a jar to get half an hour before the match started. Willis has sprained his ankle, apparently; Keene’s damaged his wrist; and Ballard has smashed his collar-bone. I don’t suppose they’ll be able to play in the ’Varsity match. Rotten luck for Cambridge. Well, fortunately we’d had two reserve pros with us at Brighton, who had come up to London with the team in case they might be wanted, so, with them, we were only one short. Then I thought of you. That’s how it was.’
‘I see,’ said Mike. ‘Who are the pros?’
‘Davis and Brockley. Both bowlers. It weakens our batting a lot. Ballard or Willis might have got a stack of runs on this wicket. Still, we’ve got a certain amount of batting as it is. We oughtn’t to do badly, if we’re careful. You’ve been getting some practice, I suppose, this season?’
‘In a sort of a way. Nets and so on. No matches of any importance.’
‘Dash it, I wish you’d had a game or two in decent class cricket. Still, nets are better than nothing, I hope you’ll be in form. We may want a pretty long knock from you, if things go wrong. These men seem to be settling down all right, thank goodness,’ he added, looking out of the window at the county’s first pair, Warrington and Mills, two professionals, who, as the result of ten minutes’ play, had put up twenty.
‘I’d better go and change,’ said Mike, picking up his bag. ‘You’re in first wicket, I suppose?’
‘Yes. And Reggie, second wicket.’
Reggie was another of Mike’s brothers, not nearly so fine a player as Joe, but a sound bat, who generally made runs if allowed to stay in.
Mike changed, and went out into the little balcony at the top of the pavilion. He had it to himself. There were not many spectators in the pavilion at this early stage of the game.
There are few more restful places, if one wishes to think, than the upper balconies of Lord’s pavilion. Mike, watching the game making its leisurely progress on the turf below, set himself seriously to review the situation in all its aspects. The exhilaration of bursting the bonds had begun to fade, and he found himself able to look into the matter of his desertion and weigh up the consequences. There was no doubt that he had cut the painter once and for all. Even a friendly-disposed management could hardly overlook what he had done. And the management of the New Asiatic Bank was the very reverse of friendly. Mr Bickersdyke, he knew, would jump at this chance of getting rid of him. He realised that he must look on his career in the bank as a closed book. It was definitely over, and he must now think about the future.
It was not a time for half-measures. He could not go home. He must carry the thing through, now that he had begun, and find something definite to do, to support himself.
There seemed only one opening for him. What could he do, he asked himself. Just one thing. He could play cricket. It was by his cricket that he must live. He would have to become a professional. Could he get taken on? That was the question. It was impossible that he should play for his own county on his residential qualification. He could not appear as a professional in the same team in which his brothers were playing as amateurs. He must stake all on his birth qualification for Surrey.
On the other hand, had he the credentials which Surrey would want? He had a school reputation. But was that enough? He could not help feeling that it might not be.
Thinking it over more tensely than he had ever thought over anything in his whole life, he saw clearly that everything depended on what sort of a show he made in this match which was now in progress. It was his big chance. If he succeeded, all would be well. He did not care to think what his position would be if he did not succeed.
A distant appeal and a sound of clapping from the crowd broke in on his thoughts. Mills was out, caught at the wicket. The telegraph-board gave the total as forty-eight. Not sensational. The success of the team depended largely on what sort of a start the two professionals made.
The clapping broke out again as Joe made his way down the steps. Joe, as an All England player, was a favourite with the crowd.
Mike watched him play an over in his strong, graceful style: then it suddenly occurred to him that he would like to know how matters had gone at the bank in his absence.
He went down to the telephone, rang up the bank, and asked for Psmith.
Presently the familiar voice made itself heard.
‘Hullo, Smith.’
‘Hullo. Is that Comrade Jackson? How are things progressing?’
‘Fairly well. We’re in first. We’ve lost one wicket, and the fifty’s just up. I say, what’s happened at the bank?’
‘I broke the news to Comrade Gregory. A charming personality. I feel that we shall be friends.’
‘Was he sick?’
‘In a measure, yes. Indeed, I may say he practically foamed at the mouth. I explained the situation, but he was not to be appeased. He jerked me into the presence of Comrade Bickersdyke, with whom I had a brief but entertaining chat. He had not a great deal to say, but he listened attentively to my narrative, and eventually told me off to take your place in the Fixed Deposits. That melancholy task I am now performing to the best of my ability. I find the work a little trying. There is too much ledger-lugging to be done for my simple tastes. I have been hauling ledgers from the safe all the morning. The cry is beginning to go round, “Psmith is willing, but can his physique stand the strain?” In the excitement of the moment just now I dropped a somewhat massive tome onto Comrade Gregory’s foot, unfortunately, I underst
and, the foot in which he has of late been suffering twinges of gout. I passed the thing off with ready tact, but I cannot deny that there was a certain temporary coolness, which, indeed, is not yet past. These things, Comrade Jackson, are the whirlpools in the quiet stream of commercial life.’
‘Have I got the sack?’
‘No official pronouncement has been made to me as yet on the subject, but I think I should advise you, if you are offered another job in the course of the day, to accept it. I cannot say that you are precisely the pet of the management just at present. However, I have ideas for your future, which I will divulge when we meet. I propose to slide coyly from the office at about four o’clock. I am meeting my father at that hour. We shall come straight on to Lord’s.’
‘Right ho,’ said Mike. ‘I’ll be looking out for you.’
‘Is there any little message I can give Comrade Gregory from you?’
‘You can give him my love, if you like.’
‘It shall be done. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
Mike replaced the receiver, and went up to his balcony again.
As soon as his eye fell on the telegraph-board he saw with a start that things had been moving rapidly in his brief absence. The numbers of the batsmen on the board were three and five.
‘Great Scott!’ he cried. ‘Why, I’m in next. What on earth’s been happening?’
He put on his pads hurriedly, expecting every moment that a wicket would fall and find him unprepared. But the batsmen were still together when he rose, ready for the fray, and went downstairs to get news.
He found his brother Reggie in the dressing-room.
‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘How were you out?’
‘LBW,’ said Reggie. ‘Goodness knows how it happened. My eyesight must be going. I mistimed the thing altogether.’
Wodehouse At the Wicket Page 7