by A. W. Pullin
"I used to travel with Lord Sheffield, and had many pleasant trips with him. In addition to the Australian visit, I have accompanied him to Egypt, Palestine, and Assam, as far as the First Cataract, also to Spitzbergen, and on two or three trips in his yacht to France, where he has taken teams to play matches.
"Mention of Spitzbergen reminds me," adds Shaw, "that in this land of the midnight sun I once played cricket at midnight with extraordinary bowling results. It was on the deck of the steamship Lusitania in one of the ice fjords on August 11, 1893. I bowled from 11.30 to 12.30. All the passengers that could play, together with the ship's officers, in all about forty of them, went to the wickets, and I bowled them all out within the hour. That was a midnight experience not to be forgotten.
"A word as to slow play and leg-play. Candidly, I think the criticisms of Notts play unjust. George Lohmann was wont to argue that batsmen used to allow too many offballs to pass them. But he was one of the first to put the 'off theory' so much into practice. Men like Shrewsbury and Gunn have to get their living by cricket. They must keep up their reputation and get runs. When a man bike Lohmann bowls four out of five balls on the off-side, and crowds the fielders on that side, it is impossible to hit the off-ball—at least, you may hit it, but it would not be long before you hit it into a fielder's hands. Why, then, should they run risks by hitting that off-ball 1
"When I was bowling I would not give a batsman his hit. I would make him play back or forward until he would be saying to himself, 'I have been here a good while now—I will try to get a run.' Then I would give him a slow one on the off-side, and nine times out of ten he would have a smack at it. When a man keeps bowling short on the off-side a batsman would be a fool to hit it. Lohmann used to say, 'What's the use bowling at the wicket 1' My answer was, 'Keep bowling at the wicket, and then give him one on the off-side occasionally.' The cause of slow cricket is the practice of bowling wide on the off-side. The 'off theory,' in short, has been carried to excess. And the peculiarity of it is that nobody blames the bowlers; they blame the batsman, which is wrong.
"As to leg-play, I do not think the law should be altered. If a man is silly enough to play with his legs, let him do so. If the law were altered it would have to be that wherever a ball pitched, if in the umpire's opinion it would hit the wicket, the batsman would be out. The result would be that matches would be often over in a day, and cricket would be ruined, both financially and otherwise. I have sometimes thought it would be a good thing to compel a batsman to score at least one run in an over. That would make the fifth ball exciting at times. But it would be a silly game. Moreover, cricket is not a game that should be made subservient to excitement. It is eminently a game to test one's patience, endurance, and skill. Therefore, I say, let the law alone."
131
EDWARD TOOLEY.
"IT was the workhouse, sir, or the river. I was at Charing Cross Hospital five months with rheumatic fever. The doctors did not think I should come out alive. But old Pooley is tough. I got round, and was discharged cured. Immediately afterwards I had an attack of influenza, which left me very weak. While in that state I met with an accident to my back, which compelled me to go into the Marylebone Infirmary. For about a year I was unable to work. Sponge on my friends I could not, neither could I become a burden to my relatives. I spent a night in the streets deliberating what to do. Then I went into the Lambeth Workhouse."
This was the predicament which the famous old Surrey cricketer, Ted Pooley, had to face in the winter of 1898. He had to choose between a plunge into pauperism or the icy Thames. Like a man he chose the braver part.
The dawn of 1899 saw Pooley with circumstances changed for the better, thanks to the exertions of friends and the press. But before another winter arrived an old enemy of his, rheumatism, had again seized him in its relentless clutch. Once more he sought refuge in the pauper's home. This time some of the daily papers discovered that he had died of cancer of the liver at Brighton. Pooley had the satisfaction of reading his own obituary notice, a piece of luck given to few men. He was at the time as comfortable as rheums and workhouse regulations permit.
It is not the writer's inclination to inquire whether or no Edward Pooley's misfortunes have been wholly unavoidable. Popular cricketers sometimes go to the wall, in which event they are occasionally what a thoughtless public makes them. The past generation of great professionals ought not on fairness to be judged by the present. Education, social surroundings, moral guidance, and influence are higher now than they were in the days when Pooley was young and frisky. Edward Pooley is now a famous old cricketer down on his luck. Those who derived pleasure from his play in days that were earlier will surely sympathise with him in the misfortunes of his later years.
One characteristic of Pooley in his younger days has in no way diminished. He has the same jaunty mien and airy cheerfulness as of old. There is nothing naturally despondent about Ted Pooley's temperament. It could only have been under a temporary fit of extreme depression that he came to contemplate the dread alternative, "The workhouse or the river 1"
Edward Pooley was born at Richmond, Surrey, on February 13, 1838. The standard chronicles of the game give the year as 1843, but Pooley says that is an error for which his father was responsible. "I don't blame the old man, who is dead and gone. But the fact is, that when I was asked for date and year of birth he said I should look more of a colt if I took five years off—which I did."
Fifty years ago Pooley played cricket on Richmond Green as the champion of the local schoolboys, for stakes of half-acrown and so on—stakes which, he says, sometimes took a week or ten days to collect. In after years he often played on the same green for ^5 a-match, his wage as a professional cricketer.
"Yet," says he, "I never dreamed at one time of going out to play as a professional cricketer. I was apprenticed in a soap-merchant's office. The term was for five years, but at the end of three I had had enough of it, so threw it up, played in a Colts' match at the Oval, and then accepted an engagement as a professional cricketer at Perth. In 1861 I had my first trial with the Surrey county team. About the time the first English team to visit Australia was being talked about, H. H. Stephenson, the captain of the team, asked me to form one of the side. I did not like to go. To tell the truth, I was doing a bit of sweethearting at that time.
"After playing with Surrey a short time, I assisted Middlesex, but Mr Burrup, the Surrey secretary, got me back again and installed me in the Surrey team. I do not recollect why I left Surrey, but I do remember I was with Middlesex for two years, and that Mr Burrup fetched me back."
To those who chiefly knew Pooley as a wicket-keeper of over twenty years' standing, it will be a surprise to be told that he was originally played as a bowler, though he knew little about bowling, and that his natural bent was discovered by accident. Says he :—
"I was chosen as a right-arm bowler, but Lor' bless yer, guv'nor, I had never bowled a ball in a match except slows. I almost laugh now to think of it. Of course, I could get a few runs, and fielded very well at long-leg. My introduction to wicket-keeping would be about the year 1863. Old Tom Lockyer's hands were bad, and the ground being fiery he could not take his usual place behind the sticks. Mr F. P. Miller, the Surrey captain, was in a quandary as to who should relieve him, so I, saucy-like, as usual, went up to him and said, 'Mr Miller, let me have a try.' 'You 1 What do you know about wicket-keeping 1 Have you ever kept wicket at all 1' was Mr Miller's remark. 'No, never, but I should like to try,' I replied. ■ 'Nonsense,' said he, when just at that moment H. H. Stephenson came up and remarked, 'Let the young 'un have a go, sir.' Mr Miller thereupon relented. I donned the gloves, quickly got two or three wickets, and seemed so much at home that Tom Lockyer was delighted, and said I was born to keep wicket and would have to be his successor in the Surrey team. What he said came true."
Pooley's hands are the most remarkable the writer has seen. The oldest living cricketer, and in his day the best of wicket-keepers, Mr Herbert Jenner-Fust,
"kept" without gloves, yet his hands to-day are shapely and undamaged, with one slight exception. George Pinder has some of his joints distorted, evidences of the hard knocks that he encountered. But Pooley—another of the great triumvirate of stumpers, Pinder, Pooley, and Pilling—possesses two fists that are mere lumps of deformity.
Every finger on the two hands has been broken; so have the two thumbs. The joints are knotted and gnarled in a way that suggests the thumbscrew rather than the stumper's gloves. The writer suggests that some of the deformity might be due to rheumatism. "Not a bit of it," replies Pooley, bringing a maimed fist down with a heavy thump on the table. "There's no rheumatics there; it's all cricket." All the same, rheumatism has had something to do with the strange deformity.
Chatting carelessly on, Pooley says: "In my younger days I was once introduced to Jem Mace. I was keeping wicket at a match at Lord's—on a pitch which at that time was so bad that you could put your finger between the cracks on the surface. A ball shot up and knocked out three of my teeth. At lunch-time I was going to wash my damaged mouth when I was told a gentleman wanted to be introduced to me. He proved to be Jem Mace. 'Pooley,' said he, 'I would rather stand up against any man in England for an hour than take your place behind the wicket for five minutes. I heard that ball strike you as if it had hit a brick wall.'
"But these accidents are nothing. They are all in the game, and stumpers then thought little of them, as they do now. The worst accident I had was at Jersey, when my nose was broken. Ted Willsher was bowling to a batsman who had as much idea of batting as a crossing - sweeper. Willsher brought Charlwood to short-leg for a catch, and sent the batsman one rather wide on the leg-side. The striker turned round, made a mighty swipe at the ball, missed it, and caught me full on the nose. I dropped like a log, insensible. When I came to myself a doctor was grating the bones in my broken nasal organ with a view to repairing the damage. Ugh!
"Another extraordinary accident, more serious in its results, occurred in Surrey v. Sussex at Brighton in 1871. Jupp threw the ball in to me to run a man out. The ball caught me on the top of the forefinger. For the moment I took no notice of the blow. We used at that time to play in flannel jackets, and on putting my hand up for a catch shortly afterwards I found that blood was running down through the arm of my jacket. Taking off my glove, I then saw that the bone of the finger was broken, and protruded through the skin. A surgeon was called, and the joint put into splints, and he gave me the discomforting assurance that I should not be able to play cricket for months.
"The Canterbury Festival, which I had not missed for some years, came on just afterwards. I wired to Mr I. D. Walker that I could not possibly play, but he replied that I was to attend, and I should be paid whether I played or not. Accordingly I went, and on reaching the ground found that four or five players had travelled by the Dover express and had been carried past Canterbury. I was enjoying a comfortable pint when Mr Walker came up a quarter of an hour before luncheon and asked me to go in at once. I did so, with boots unlaced and no pads on; and before I was out my score had been taken to 93, in recognition of which a collection was made for me on the ground. When my innings was over I found that my injury had caused a lump to rise in my armpit as big as a walnut. I was mightily alarmed for the time being, but, fortunately, my cricket was not seriously interfered with.
"Mention of Canterbury reminds me that Mr C. I. Thornton, whom I have always regarded as the hardest hitter the world has seen, and myself once went in to see how many runs we could get within a certain time. At the end of half an hour the score was 130 or 140. Mr Thornton hit one ball over a tree into the hop-gardens, after which I remarked to him, 'I'll give you the belt, sir.' I tried to throw a ball over that tree afterwards and could not manage it.
"I think I may say that Mr Thornton did not like me behind the wicket when he was batting. He used to say, 'If you were not there, Pooley, I could step out a bit, but if I do and miss I shall be stumped.' In one match against Kent we got Mr Thornton's wicket in a way that caused us much glee. He came in, without pads as usual, and remarked to me, 'Ted, I'll hit Street right out of the ground first ball.' 'All right; do, sir,' I replied. I gave Jim Street the tip that Mr Thornton intended to step out to the first delivery, and told him to drop it very short. Street did so, and Mr Thornton, stepping out, missed it by yards—more or less. He made no attempt to regain his crease, but looking round at me, said ruefully, 'All right, Ted; you've had me this time.'"
Certain unpleasantness occurred in one of the Yorkshire v. Surrey matches at Sheffield twenty years or so ago, concerning which there were allegations of gambling. The facts, as now given by Pooley, show that the suspicions that existed were unjust.
"I was accused," says he, "of having tried to lose Surrey the match. What happened was this. I went down to Sheffield on the Sunday night, ready for the match the following day, and stayed at our usual hostelry, kept by Jim Darley. Jim said, 'Well, lad, what sort of a side have you brought? Shall we win or lose this time?' I replied, 'Jim, my boy, we haven't got a chance with you, but I'll tel! you what I will do—I'll bet a bottle of champagne that I get more runs than any one on your side you like to name/ Jupp chimes in, 'One bottle only, Ted? Make it two, then we can have one each for breakfast.' I agreed; we two would have a bottle each against the score of any two Yorkshiremen. The consequence was that 'old Mary' Lockwood, one of the very best men Yorkshire ever turned out, and Andrew Greenwood were named as the Yorkshire pair. As luck would have it, I got the most runs, and Jupp and I won the two bottles—which we duly had for breakfast the next day.
"Well, this innocent bet was magnified by gossip into a bet of ^50 made by me against Surrey winning the match. There was a row about it, and I was indignant and made remarks, as any one else would have done under the circumstances. I never was a gambler on cricket. As to our couple of bottles, it was all in good friendship, and it looked 5 to 1 against us winning, for Lockwood and Andrew Greenwood were at that time two of the best batsmen in England."
There was a match between the Gentlemen and Players at the Oval in June 1869, which the Gentlemen won by 17 runs. Pooley and Wootton made a great effort to pull off the game for the Players. Just before the finish Willsher entered the field with a drink for Pooley, and it was then said that it was done for the purpose of wasting time. What says Pooley?
"It was a race against time. There were 87 runs to be got when the ninth wicket fell. I was in good form, while Wootton, who did not usually stay more than two overs, kept his end up wonderfully well. I hit up 52 in less than an hour, and then Mr C. Absolom bowled me off my legs. I can see the ball now as plainly as possible; it was one I ought to have hit. The Gentlemen won by 17 runs about thirteen minutes before the time for drawing stumps. It is perfectly true that Willsher brought me out something to drink, but I do not recollect that anything was said by him to me as to how we should play. Mr Gale has said that the glass of water (was it water ?) was an excuse for giving me riding orders—namely, to play for a win and not to draw. But I don't reruember him saying anything of the kind. Willsher brought me a drink in the usual way, and I needed no riding orders. Having got so near, it was only likely we should play to win and not to draw the match. There certainly was no idea of wasting time. Willsher was not the man to save a match by that means.
"Perhaps the most amusing incident that I can remember in my cricket experiences occurred at Whitehaven, in a match Grace's Eleven v. a local Twenty, who had the assistance of Barlow and the late Jack Platts,—he of the fatal Summers match. Platts was batting, when the ball stuck in his hands. W. R. Gilbert sang out, 'Get to it, Ted,' and as I was about to do so Platts deliberately put the ball into his trousers, without saying a word. He knew, however, he had done wrong, for when I said, 'Jack, what's up 1' he immediately ran away from his wicket. He was followed by nearly all the members of the Eleven, and a most comic race it was —a set of fielders running after a batsman all round the enclosure. In running the ball slipped down Platts' trousers, and
he tried to kick it out, but before he could do so one of the fielders got hold of him, and he was held down while the ball was taken out of his trousers, before it could touch the ground.
"It was a most laughable and extraordinary incident, but the sequel was even more so. Platts walked coolly back to the wicket and prepared to continue his innings. 'What's your game now, Jack?' I asked; 'you know you're out.' 'Ask the umpires,' said he. I did so, and the artists gave him 'not out' on the ground that they could not see what had happened! Yet, as a fact, he was out in three ways— handling the ball, obstructing the field, and caught."
The writer may here interpolate a remark on this incident. Platts always declared that he never handled the ball. He used to play in an ordinary grey shirt, and his trousers always came above his belt an inch or two, so there was plenty of room for a ball to lodge. He played the ball into his shirt. When he started to run it was with the intention of jerking the ball out, but " it went the wrong way, down his trousers!"
"In the same match at Whitehaven," continues Pooley, "I ran Barlow out when he was two yards out of his ground. In trying to get home the end of the bat stuck, and Barlow received such a blow that he fell over insensible. We gave him a drink of brandy—though he was a teetotaller—and on coming round the first thing he said was, 'I am not out, am I?' On being told that he was out, didn't he look cross! He took the loss of his wicket more keenly than the temporary loss of his senses."
Pooley was a member of the fourth English team that went to Australia in 1876 under the captaincy of James Lillywhite. The team also visited New Zealand, and while there Pooley was under a cloud, and had to endure compulsory separation from his colleagues for some time. He is not afraid of referring to the matter now. It appears that there was a bet on a certain match which the touring party won. The gentleman who made it refused to pay, and a disturbance and an assault ensued. By all accounts the gentleman who refused to pay was the worst, and though there was undoubtedly an assault, Pooley says that two members of the team, both now dead, did the most damage. Be that as it may, Pooley was detained and put on trial. He was acquitted, and he says now that the decision gave so much local satisfaction that a purse of 50 guineas was subscribed for him, a watch and chain were presented to him, and he was driven round the town in a four-in-hand like a conquering hero.