“He ought to do,” said Bloomfield to Game on the Friday evening after the last of the practices. “He stood up to Fairbairn’s bowling not at all badly.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Game, whose prejudice was stronger than his judgment, “if Fairbairn bowled down easy to him on purpose; they’re awfully thick, you know.”
“But I didn’t bowl down to him easy,” replied Bloomfield; “and he cut me for two twice running.”
Game could not answer this argument, and was bound to admit a worse man might have been put into the odd place.
“It’s a pity, though; they’ll be so jolly cocky, all that set, there’ll be no enduring it. I only hope our fellows will do most of the scoring to-morrow, and not leave them a chance of saying they won the match for us.”
Bloomfield laughed. “Not much fear of that,” said he; “but if they did, I suppose you’d sooner beat Rockshire with their help than be thrashed?”
Game was not quite sure, and said nothing.
One might have supposed that an occasion like the present, when the picked eleven Willoughby was to play the picked eleven of Rockshire, that there would have been no place left for party rivalry, or any feeling but one of patriotic ardour for the victory of the old school. But so deeply was the disease of party spirit rooted in Willoughby that even this match came to be looked on quite as much as a struggle between rival houses as between the school and an outside team.
The discovery was made that the eleven consisted of five schoolhouse players, five Parrett’s players, and one Welcher. More than that, the ingenious noted the fact that the two best bowlers of the eleven were Bloomfield and Fairbairn, one from each house, who could also both field as wicket-keepers when not bowling. And the two second bowlers were Game and Porter, also one from each house. This minute analysis might doubtless have been continued down to the cover-points. At any rate, it was manifest the two houses were very evenly divided, both as regarded merit and place, and it would therefore be easy to see which contributed most to the service of the school.
The Rockshire men arrived by the ten o’clock train, and were met as usual by the Willoughby omnibus at the station. As they alighted and proceeded to stroll in a long procession across the Big to their tent, they were regarded with much awe and curiosity by the small boys assembled to witness their advent, some of whom were quite at a loss to understand how boys like themselves could ever expect not to be beaten by great whiskered heroes like these. Even the young Welchers, who had contrived to be practising close to the line of march, felt awed in their presence, and made a most hideous hash of the little exhibition with which they had intended to astonish their visitors.
The self-confident ease of these Rockshire men was even a trifle discouraging for a few of the school heroes themselves, who looked on nervously as their rivals coolly went up and inspected the wickets and criticised the pitch, and then proceeded, laughing among themselves, towards the pavilion. Things like this are more or less terrifying, and an old team that comes down to play a young one ought to be more considerate.
It was fortunate for the school team that all its members were not as shy and diffident as others, or the operation of tossing for innings and other matters of form would never have been got through.
Mr Parrett, however, as an old ’Varsity blue, was as great a hero in the sight of Rockshire as Rockshire was in the sight of Willoughby, and with his aid the preliminaries were all arranged, and Willoughby went out first to field.
The Big was never so crowded with boys, masters, or the outside public, as it was on this bright June day. The exploits of the school at the recent election may have had something to do with the number of townsfolk who flocked up to see the game, but apart from that the Rockshire match was always one of the great events of the season.
Last year, thanks to old Wyndham’s prowess, the school had won; but before that, back almost to the days of the mythical Bouncer, the fates had been the other way; and this year, good as the team was, no one had the hardihood to predict with any confidence a victory for the boys.
Just as Riddell was leaving the tent to take his place in the field, young Wyndham came up and clapped him cheerily on the back.
“Go in and win, I say,” he cried, gaily. “I back you, old man.”
It was the first time the two had met since Riddell’s interview with Tom the boat-boy, and the sight of his old friend’s brother, and the sound of his voice just now, gave the captain a shock which for the moment almost unmanned him.
He turned pale as he looked at the boy, and thought of that knife.
“Oh, I say,” said Wyndham, noticing his perturbation, “pull yourself together, old man; you’ll get on all serene. I was funky the first time I showed up for the second-eleven, you know, but it’s all right now!”
“Now, Riddell!” cried Bloomfield, impatiently, from the wickets; and off the captain hurried to his post, with a load of trouble at his heart, and feeling anything but a jubilant athlete.
Wyndham, little dreaming what was passing through his patron’s mind, settled himself cross-legged at the door of the scorer’s tent, and thought of nothing for the next few hours but the match.
The two Rockshire men, upon whom devolved the duty of “opening the ball,” strolled slowly up to the wickets, and a minute later the match had begun.
As usual, the first few overs were uneventful. The bowlers were trying what the batsmen were made of, and the batsmen were trying what the bowlers were made of. Riddell was thankful for his part that no ball came his way, and the spectators generally seemed to regard two maiden overs as a sort of necessary infliction at the opening of any big match.
But when Bloomfield took the ball again it was evident things were to grow a little brisker. His first ball was very neatly patted towards square-leg for two, amid the cheers which always greet “the first blood,” and his next ball slipped past the long-stop for a bye. Wyndham and some other enthusiasts sighed, as if those three runs had settled the fate of Willoughby. But his sigh was abruptly turned into a cheer when next moment the Rockshire man’s wicket tumbled all of a heap, and one of the foe was out for three.
Willoughby began to breathe again. When they had seen those two portentous heroes go in, the prospect of their ever going out had seemed fearfully remote. But now, if one man was got rid of for only three runs, why should not ten men go for only thirty? At which arithmetical discovery the school immediately leapt from the depths of despondency to the heights of confidence, and considered the match as good as won before it was fairly begun.
However, during the next half-hour they had time to seek the happy mean between the two extremes. The newcomer was a tough customer, and should certainly have gone in first. For he was one of those aggravating batsmen who keep a steady bat at everything, who never aspire to a slog, never walk out to a slow, never step back to a yorker, are never too soon for a lob, or too late for a shooter — in fact, who play the safe plodding game in the face of all temptation.
The one comfort was, he did not make many runs. Still, this sort of business is demoralising for bowlers and slow for the field, and a change of bowlers was consequently decided upon after about half an hour’s play, when the score was at twenty-one.
Game and Porter were the two new hands, the latter being the first to officiate with a very neat maiden over, loudly cheered from the school tent. Game who followed, was not so fortunate. The Rockshire man who had gone in first cut him hard for three on his second ball — the first hard hit of the match. And this the steady man followed up with a quiet two neatly placed between point and mid-off. Then came another ball, which the same player turned off sharply into the slips.
It was a fairly difficult ball to field, but Riddell picked it up smartly and returned it to the wickets in time to prevent a run being made.
“Well fielded indeed, sir!” cried Wyndham’s voice from the tent. Little thought he how strangely those words of encouragement missed their mark. Riddell had just been f
orgetting his trouble and warming up to the game, and now they came once more to remind him of that hated knife and Tom the boat-boy’s story.
The next ball the Rockshire man also “slipped,” but this time, though it was within easier reach, and for a first-rate fielder was even a possible catch, Riddell missed it, and two runs were made. “Look out there!” cried Bloomfield severely. “Well tried, sir!” cried some one, sarcastically. “Well missed, sir!” cried some one else, with painful truthfulness. Riddell saw the crisis. Another miss like that, a few more taunts like those, and he might as well retire from the field.
Not for the first time in his life he pulled himself together with a vehement effort and shook off every thought but the one duty that claimed him.
And only just in time.
The last ball of the over was played again into slip, this time very smartly. The school shivered as they saw it whiz straight for the weak point. But they might have spared themselves their agitation, for Riddell had it — all but a catch — before the shiver was over, and had returned it to Fairbairn at the wickets promptly enough to make the Rockshire man feel he had had a narrow escape of a run-out.
“Fielded, sir!” said Bloomfield, as the players crossed over; and this commendation was more encouraging than all the shouts of the schoolhouse partisans.
Porter’s next over disposed of the first Rockshire man, amid great school rejoicing, which was only tempered by the reflection among the Parretts that it was a wicket to the credit of the schoolhouse half of the eleven.
Then followed a succession of short but smart innings, during which the Rockshire score crawled up to seventy, despite of a further change of bowlers and very careful all-round fielding by the school.
All this time the steady man hung on obstinately; nothing seemed to puzzle him or tempt him out of his caution.
At length, in sheer desperation, Coates was put on to bowl; anything seemed better than this hopeless deadlock. And so it turned out. Coates’s first ball came down temptingly towards the off stump. Any enterprising player would have cut it for a safe four, but this cautious hand, who seemed to smell a rat in everything, was evidently determined not to be taken in by first appearances, and turned it off, half contemptuously, to his favourite quarter among the slips, thinking possibly he might punish the next rather more freely. But the next was not to come for him. Coates’s ball was rising a bit as the batsman touched it, and though he did not hit it up, it yet spun a foot or so above the ground, an easy catch, straight into Riddell’s hand, who held it fast, much to his own surprise, and greatly to the jubilation of all Willoughby.
“Well caught, sir! Caught, indeed! Played up, Riddell!” were the cries which on all hands greeted the achievement, Wyndham’s call being longest and loudest of them all.
But this time Riddell suffered no harm from the sound of that familiar voice. He had steeled himself against it for a few hours at least, and it was to him but one out of many.
Rockshire’s first innings terminated shortly with no further event of note. The last wicket fell for ninety-two, a respectable total, of which fifty-nine had been made off the Parretts’ batsmen, and thirty-three off the schoolhouse. Indeed, the advantage of the schoolhouse did not end there. Out of three catches — not counting Riddell’s — they had made two, while of the five wickets which had been taken by the bowling, they claimed three against their rivals’ two.
Great was the dismay of Parrett’s as these results were made known. They buoyed themselves up greatly, however, with the prospect of the batting, where it would be strange indeed if they did not score better than the schoolhouse. And after all, it is the runs that win a match.
Bloomfield himself, be it said to his credit, allowed no petty considerations of party rivalry to influence him in sending in the best men at the right time. However much in some ways he might lend himself to the whims of his more energetic comrades, in a matter like the Rockshire match, where he was in sole command, and responsible for the glory of the school, he acted with the sole object of winning the match.
It would have been easy to send in Fairbairn and Porter last, when they would have no chance of scoring; or Coates, who was a rash hitter, and never was safe until the back of the bowling had been somewhat broken, might have been sent in first.
But such an arrangement Bloomfield knew would be fatal for the chances of the school, and it therefore never entered his head to contrive it. And his fairness in this respect was fully justified, for the school put together a hundred and twelve runs — just twenty more than their opponents — a performance which not even the most sanguine Willoughbite had dared to anticipate. Towards this total Riddell, who had gone in last and carried his bat, had contributed seven, not a little to his own surprise and the delight of the onlooking Welchers. But the most remarkable thing about the innings was that, contrary to all calculation, the five schoolhouse fellows had contributed no less than sixty-four runs to the total, while the Parretts’ united score only amounted to forty-one.
The second innings of Rockshire differed very little from the first. The steady man went in first, and bothered every bowler the school could bring against him; and, having had one lesson, he took good care not to give himself another, and rather avoided slip for the future. So that Riddell had a quiet time of it, fielding the few balls that came to him steadily and promptly, but otherwise not figuring prominently in the downfall of any wicket.
It was half-past four before Rockshire finally retired with a total for their second innings of ninety-nine, leaving the school boys with eighty runs to obtain to win.
It was not a formidable total after their first-innings performance, but at the outset a calamity happened enough to depress the hopes of any Willoughbite.
Bloomfield had gone in first with every intention of breaking the ice effectually for his side. What, therefore, was the consternation of everybody when, after neatly blocking the first ball, he was clean bowled for a duck’s-egg by the second! Willoughby literally howled with disappointment, and gave itself up to despair as it saw its captain and champion retreating slowly back to the tent, trailing his bat behind him, and not daring to look up at the hideous “0” on the telegraph board.
But hope was at hand, though Parrett’s was not to supply it. Coates and Crossfield, who were now together, made a most unexpected and stubborn stand. They even scored freely, and the longer they held together the harder it was to part them. The reviving hopes of the Rockshire partisans gradually died out before this awkward combination, and Game and Ashley and Tipper, as they sat and watched this spirited performance by the two schoolhouse boys, felt their triumph for the school utterly swamped in the still more signal victory which the despised house was achieving over them.
The score, amid terrific cheering, went up to fifty-two before a separation could be effected. Then Coates was caught at long-leg, and retired, covered with glory, in favour of Tipper.
Alas for Parrett’s! Tipper, in whom their forlorn hopes rested, was run out during his first over, while attempting to snatch a bye!
It was an anxious moment while Bloomfield was deciding whom next to send in. There was still thirty runs to make, but unless he took care the whole innings might be muddled away in the getting of them.
“You go in, Fairbairn,” said the captain.
The Parretts felt their fate to be sealed hopelessly. Had Game been sent in he might still have done something for Parrett’s, but now his chance might never come.
It did not come. Fairbairn joined Crossfield, and the two did just what they liked with the bowling. As the score shot up from fifty to sixty and from sixty to seventy, the school became perfectly hoarse with cheering. Even most of the partisans of Parrett’s, sorely as the match was going against them, could not help joining in the applause now that the prospect of the school winning by seven wickets had become a probability.
Up went the score — another three for Fairbairn — another two for Crossfield — seventy-five — then next moment a
terrific cheer greeted a four by Fairbairn, which brought the numbers equal; and before the figures were well registered another drive settled the question, and Willoughby had beaten Rockshire by seven wickets!
Chapter Twenty Five
“Am I My Brother’s Keeper?”
The evening of the Rockshire match was one of strangely conflicting emotions in Willoughby.
In the schoolhouse the jubilation was beyond bounds, and the victory of the school was swallowed up in the glorious exploits of the five schoolhouse heroes, who had, so their admirers declared, as good as won the match among them, and had vindicated themselves from the reproach of degeneracy, and once for all wiped away the hateful stigma of the boat-race. The night was spent till bedtime in one prolonged cheer in honour of their heroes, who were glad enough to hide anywhere to escape the mobbing they came in for whenever they showed their faces.
In Parrett’s house the festivities were of a far more subdued order. As Willoughbites they were, of course, bound to rejoice in the victory of the old school. But at what cost did they do it? For had not that very victory meant also the overthrow of their reign in Willoughby. No reasoning or excusing could do away with the fact that after all their boasting, and all their assumed superiority, they had taken considerably less than half the wickets, secured considerably less than a third of the catches, and scored considerably less than a quarter of the runs by which the match had been won. Their captain had been bowled for a duck’s-egg. Their best bowlers had been knocked about by the very batsmen whom the schoolhouse bowlers had dispatched with ease.
It was vain to attempt to account for it, to assert that the schoolhouse had had the best of the luck: that the light had favoured them; or that just when they happened to bowl the Rockshire men had got careless. Even such stick-at-nothing enthusiasts as Parson, Bosher, and Co., couldn’t make a case of it, and were forced to admit with deep mortification that the glory had departed from Parrett’s, at any rate for a season.
The Willoughby Captains Page 27