Amusement Only Part 56

The last ball of the over, and the ninth of our hopes had fallen. A pause ensued. The batsman came limping towards the tent. Mr. Hedges'

time was come; he clutched at the seat with the frenzy of despair.

"Bill Hedges!" sang out Mr. Benyon; but Mr. Hedges gave no sign. "Bill Hedges!" Still no reply. "Bill Hedges, have I got to come and fetch you?"

At that awful threat the old gentleman did rise. His ample form went waddling across the ground.

"I--I'm a-coming, Tom. I--I ain't no cricketer, Tom. Do--don't you be too hard on me. If you must hit me, let it be behind."

"Where's your bat?"

The inquiry came from Mr. Benyon. Mr. Hedges had arrived at the wicket without that batsman's requisite. He scratched his head.

"My bat? I--I don't want no bat. I--I ain't no cricketer. You can hit me quite as well without it, Tom."

"Go and get your bat!"

Mr. Hedges went and got it. When he had it it was evident that he had but rudimentary notions of its uses. He held it gingerly, round side foremost, as though he were afraid that if he grasped it tightly it would burn him.

"Bill Hedges, do you remember those drinks you paid for me the Sat.u.r.day week before I died?"

"No, Tom; I can't say rightly as how I do."

"You did. It was at the 'Crown and Anchor.' I had no money. I said if you'd stand Sam I'd pay you back again; but I never did. I'll pay you now."

Mr. Benyon paid him, five times over. The old gentleman bore it like a lamb. Whack--whack--whack--whack--whack! and the fall of his wicket at the end. As he returned towards the tent he wiped his wrinkled brow.

"I always said I wasn't no cricketer, and I ain't," he said.

CHAPTER III.

AND BATS.

Our innings was over--for thirteen runs. We sat there, moping in a crowd, I among the rest, when Mr. Benyon, bustling up, reminded me of my duties as a captain.

"Now then, turn out. Send your men into the field. We can't stop here all day. I'm first man in; soon I'll have to go, and I haven't had a smack at a cricket-ball these twenty years!"

We looked at each other. One part of his address gave us a certain gratification--that part in which he stated that he soon would have to go. We turned out. I suppose a more unpromising set of fieldsmen never yet took their places in the field. The Latchmere men went slouching towards the tent; some of them, I noticed, instead of going in stole towards the rear. These, I suspect, stole off the ground; I never set eyes on them again.

"Mr. Trentham, I--I can't bowl," whispered Mr. Sapsworth to me as we moved across the turf.

He and I had agreed that we should start the bowling. I confess that I felt no more inclined to act up to the letter of our agreement than he did. But Mr. Benyon intervened.

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, you take the bowling one end, and let your captain take the other. Captain, you take first over."

I obeyed without a murmur. It might have been quite a usual thing to see in a match a member of one team ordering about the captain of the other. I do not think that our field was arranged on scientific principles; I may certainly claim that I had nothing to do with its arrangement. There is a suspicion floating through my mind that at one or two points--two, or more--men were placed unusually close together.

For instance, at deep mid-off--very deep mid-off--Mr. Hawthorn and Mr.

Hedges were not only doing their best to trample on each other's toes, but each was seeking for a place of security behind the other's back.

Mr. Barker shared with Mr. Benyon the honour of being first man in.

The Latchmere captain, as a captain, had become quite as much a figurehead as I had. His bearing was indicative of extreme depression.

I think he had learned that to take, off-hand, the first subst.i.tute who offered, was, now and then, unwise.

To enable him to bat with more advantage, Mr. Benyon had removed his waistcoat, which matched his trousers and his coat. What he had done with it I cannot say; possibly it had vanished, with his other garments, into air. Now he had on a bright red flannel s.h.i.+rt--his tastes in costume seemed a trifle lurid--the sleeves of which were turned up above the elbows. His pose was almost as peculiar as his costume. He stood bolt upright, his legs together, his feet drawn heel to heel; not at all in the fas.h.i.+on of a modern cricketer, who seeks to guard his wickets with his legs. His bat he held straight down in front of him, the blade swinging gently in the air.

I am afraid I wasted more time in preparing to deliver my first ball than I need have done; but if Mr. Benyon had not had a smack with a bat for twenty years it was a good fifteen since I had bowled a ball.

After such a lapse of time one requires to pull oneself together before exhibiting one's powers to a cricketer of Mr. Benyon's calibre.

He, however, did not seem to recognise the necessity which I myself felt that I was under.

"Hurry up, sir! Don't I tell you that soon I'll have to go?"

I hurried up. I gave him an overhand full pitch which would have made a decent catch for point, if point had been close in, which he wasn't.

However, in any case Mr. Benyon would have saved him the trouble. He hit the ball a crack the like of which I had never seen before. He drove it over the hedge, and over the trees, and up to the skies, and out of sight.

"I don't think that's a bad little smack to start with," he observed.

"I like your kind of bowling, mister. I suppose that's a boundary." He called to the scorer--if there was one, which I doubt--"Put down Tom Benyon six!" He turned again to me. "It's no good wasting time looking for that ball. I've another in my pocket you can have."

He put his hand into his trousers' pocket. Those remarkable garments fitted him like eel-skins. I had certainly never supposed that he could by any possibility have such a thing as a cricket-ball in one of the pockets. But it appeared that he had. He drew one out and threw it up to me.

My second ball was a colourable imitation of my first, only this time it was wide to leg. To long-leg Mr. Benyon sent it flying.

"Put down Tom Benyon another six!" he cried. "I _do_ like your bowling, mister. I've got another ball which you can have."

He produced a second ball from the same pocket from which the first had come. I could scarcely believe my eyes. But I was discovering, with Horatio, that there were more things in heaven and earth than had been contained in my philosophy. Since Mr. Benyon professed such affection for the style of bowling which I favoured, I sent him down another sample. This time it was fairly straight--by which I mean that it would not have pitched more than a yard from the wickets if Mr.

Benyon had allowed it to pitch, which he didn't. He treated it as he had done the first--he drove it, with terrific force, right above my head.

"Never mind about the ball," he said. "I've got another in my pocket."

He had--the third. And in the same pocket from which the other two had come.

My fourth ball he treated to a swipe to square-leg. He seemed to have a partiality for swiping. Quite unnecessarily he allowed that this was so.

"I do like a ball which I can get a smack at," he remarked as he produced a fourth ball from the same pocket of his tightly-fitting trousers which had contained the other three. "A swipe does warm me so. Your kind of bowling, mister, 's just the thing."

It was kind of him to say so; though, to my thinking, his remark did not convey a compliment. When he sent my fifth ball out of sight I wished that his love for swiping had been less, or my bowling of another kind. The sixth, however, which he also produced from the same wondrous store contained in his breeches pocket, he contented himself with what he called "snicking."

"That's what I call a pretty snick," he said.

The "snick" in question was a tremendous drive to deep mid-off. It was stopped, quite involuntarily, by Mr. Hawthorn and Mr. Hedges. So far as I could see, it stunned the pair of them. Neither of them made the slightest attempt to return the ball.

"Run it out!" cried Mr. Benyon. He and Mr. Barker began to run. They ran four, and then they ran two more, and still the ball was not thrown in. Mr. Benyon urged the fielders on. "Hurry up, Bill Hedges!"

Mr. Hedges did not hurry up; he never could have hurried up, even if his manner of "fielding" the ball had not wholly deprived him of his wind. But the ball was at last thrown in--when the pair had run eleven. Forty-one runs off his first over was a result calculated to take the conceit out of the average bowler. And Mr. Benyon's last performance, his "snick," had placed him at the other wicket, prepared to receive Mr. Sapsworth's bowling--when it came.

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, I'll have a smack at you!" he said.

He had. I felt for Mr. Sapsworth. But since I had suffered it was only fair that he should suffer too. Crack--smack--whack went the b.a.l.l.s out of sight in all directions. And for each ball that disappeared Mr.

Benyon produced another from his breeches pocket. I felt that these things must be happening to me in a dream. I was rapidly approaching the condition in which Alice must have been in Wonderland--prepared for anything.