HAD I been in less of a tottering funk, I might have taken the admirably timed arrival of the Authentics as an omen of good luck. But I was in that suicidal frame of mind when a man wishes that he is anything but what he is, anywhere but where he is, and that he has to do aught but what he has to do. It is a frame of mind that can give for deep-seated torture a long start to nightmares, weddings, sea-sickness, and public speaking. If I were only going in first wicket, I shouldn’t care! If I’d only an inkling of what the bowling was like! If only it wasn’t Little Clumpton v. Hickory! If only the crowd wasn’t so beastly big and demonstrative! If only it wasn’t such a glaring hot day! If only this abject cap was not two sizes too small! If it was only my own, and it didn’t look and feel so supremely ridiculous! If I could only cut away to a prompt and very private death! Cricket is quite a gentle, harmless game, but he is a lucky man who has not to sweat some blood before he’s done with it.

“Ready, Dimsdale?” said the Captain.

I followed him sickly, fumbling at my batting-glove with nervous fingers.

“Wish you luck, old man,” said some person of benevolent disposition, as I issued forth. It is never exactly kind, however, to wish luck to the keenly sensitive, as it leads them to think that they’ll certainly need luck, and plenty of it, if they’re going to stay long. From the Artistic Standpoint (capital letters, please, Mr. Printer!), it is a thousand pities that I cannot say that when I stepped from the pavilion on this great occasion to open the innings with my Captain, a man whose name had penetrated to the remotest corners of the cricket world, I held my head up with an air of conscious power. Why was I not, as the Hero of this story, prepared to do the thing in style, in the manner of the most accepted writers? Of course I ought to have marched to the wicket, my heart big with courage, calm in the knowledge that the Hero never does get less than fifty. I ought to have been ready to chastise Villainy in the person of the Demon Bowler, by hitting his length balls for six on the slightest provocation. I am sure that no less than this is expected of me by every right-minded reader. Nor am I blind by any means to my obligations; yet somehow it is so much easier to get runs with the pen than with the bat. At least I have always found it so!

I daresay that, except for being a trifle pale, I looked quite happy to all but the trained observer. I don’t suppose that ten persons of the shouting thousands present had the faintest notion that the trim-built chap of medium height who walked in with H. J. Halliday, his bat tucked beneath his arm, as he fastened on his glove, had limbs of paper and a heart of fear. There was nought to indicate that there was a dreadful buzzing in his ears, a black mist before his eyes, that his knee-joints were threatening to let him down at every step, and that he was praying to be bowled first ball, to be put out of his misery at once.

When you go in to bat, it is not that you dread aught special and particular. You would cheerfully endure anything rather than your present ordeals. You are not afraid of getting a “duck.” On the contrary, you’ll be almost happy if you get one. It is the mere sensation of an impending something, you know not what, that plays skittles with your impressionable nature.

“’Mind taking first ball, Halliday?” I said hoarsely.

“If you like,” said he; then added, “Just play your usual, and you’re bound to get ’em.”

True cricketers are the soul of kindness.

Carefully noting at which end the wicket-keeper was, I just as carefully went to the one at which he was not. The mighty H. C. Trentham was loosening his arm, and sending down a few preliminaries. I watched him as keenly as the black mists before my eyes allowed. He brought his long brown arm right over with a beautiful, easy, automatic swing. The ball slipped from his fingers at an ordinary pace, but as soon as it took the ground it spun off the pitch with an inward twist at three times the rate one would expect. He looked every inch a bowler, powerfully built in every part, his body supple as a cat’s, a remarkable length of limb, and, better still, a pair of extremely strong and heavy-timbered legs.

However, the man preparing to resist him looked every inch a batsman, too. Lithe, alert, calm, he seemed quietly happy that he had got to face a bowler worthy of his artifice. The manner in which he asked for his guard, and took it, the elaborate process he went through to ensure the maintenance of “two leg,” the diligent way in which he observed the placing of the field, and the freedom with which he ordered the screen about, all pointed to the conclusion that if Hickory got him out for under fifty on that wicket, they would be able to congratulate themselves. There is as much difference between the first-class cricketer and the ordinary club-man as there is between a professional actor and the gifted amateur. The club-man may be a marvel of conscientiousness, discretion, and enthusiasm, and able to recite Steel and Lyttelton from the preface to the index at a moment’s notice, but he has not that air of inevitableness that emphasizes the county man scoring off the best of Briggs and Richardson, and apparently able to compass any feat in the batting line but the losing of his wicket.

The terrific H. C. Trentham was now ready to deal destruction. Anxiously had I observed the placing of the field, the most noticeable items of which were the wicket-keeper standing a dozen yards behind the sticks, and the four men in the slips still deeper, with their hands on their thighs, and their noses on a level with the bails. The bowler measured his distance, and scratched up the turf at his starting-point. The batsman set himself. The bowler walked a couple of yards, then broke into a trot, that gradually grew into a run, and when he arrived at the crease, with the velocity of a locomotive he hurled the ball from his hand, and his body after it, almost faster than the eye could follow. The Captain fairly dug his bat into his block-hole, and the ball came back straight down the pitch, whizzing and rotating in half-circles. It was a most determined and barefaced attempt to “york” the captain, and the bowler smiled all over his countenance in a very winning manner. The Captain set himself again. The next ball was of perfect length, a few inches on the off, and turned in suddenly, with the ungenerous idea of hitting the top of the off stump; but the Captain, watching it all the way, met it very warily, his right leg well against his bat, and blocked it gently back again to the bowler. The third had a very similar design, but happening to be pitched a little farther up, it came back as though propelled from a gun. The bowler neatly picked it up one hand, and drew the first cheer from the crowd. The fourth was full of guile. It was a trifle on the short side, wide of the off stump, and instead of turning in, was going away with the bowler’s arm. The Captain drew himself erect, held up his bat, and never made the least attempt to play it. The bowler smiled more winningly than ever. A London critic unburdened his mind by shouting “Nottingham!” The fifth was wickedness itself. The bowler covered his fifteen yards of run with exactly the same action and velocity, hurled down the ball with the same frantic effort of arms and body, but, behold, the ball was as slow as possible, and the eye could distinctly follow it as it spun in the air with a palpable leg-bias. Even the great batsman who had to receive it was at fault. He played a little bit too soon, but, happily for Little Clumpton, the ground was so hard and true that it refused to take the full amount of work, and instead of its curling in and taking the Captain’s middle, as the bowler had intended, it refused to come in farther than the leg stick, which was conscientiously covered by the Captain’s pad. There it hit him, and rolled slowly towards the umpire, whilst the wicket-keeper pelted grotesquely after it.

“Come on!” I cried, seizing the opportunity, for I was very, very anxious for the Captain to take first over from the other end. Accordingly, we scuttled down the pitch, and I got home just as the wicket-keeper threw down my citadel.

“Well bowled, Charlie!” said the Captain. But I think there was more in this than may appear, as I believe the thoughtful Captain wished to attract my careful attention to that particular ball. Meantime the bowler had been grinning so violently at his own exceeding subtlety that mid-off politely requested him not to commit such an outrage on the handiwork of nature.

“Tom, you have a try that end,” said Captain George, throwing the ball to T. S. M. “Set the field where you want ’em.”

“Left-hand round the wicket!” the umpire announced to the batsman; “covers ’em both, sir.”

It was plain, by the irregular arrangement of the field, which had three men out, that T. S. M. was slow.

“You don’t want a third man; send him out into the country, and bring point round a bit!”

Now as these commands were issued most distinctly from the top of the coach, and as Miss Grace Trentham was at that moment the sole occupant of the same, she must be held responsible for them. A wide smile flickered in the face of every fielder, including that of the happy-go-lucky Hickory captain. But let it be observed, in passing, that there are captains to whom this advice, however Pallas-like, would not appear “good form.” It was evident that Miss Grace knew her man.

“By Jove! she’s right,” said the good-humoured soldier; “get round, Jimmy.”

“She always is,” said the Harrow captain, her youngest brother; “and I wish she wasn’t. She knows a jolly sight too much.”

“Why don’t she qualify for Kent,” said J. P. Carteret, as he waddled off to deep square-leg.

The Harrow boy began with a singular sort of movement that must have had a resemblance to the war-dance of the cheerful Sioux, or the festive Shoshanee, which developed into a corkscrew kind of action that was very puzzling to watch, and imparted to the ball a peculiar and deceptive flight. He was quite slow, with a certain amount of spin and curl. The Captain played right back to him every time, and, like the old Parliamentary hand he was, there was very little of his wicket to be seen, as his legs did their best to efface it. The Captain had come in with the determination to take no liberties. He meant to play himself thoroughly well in before turning his attention to the secondary matter of making runs. If T. S. M. had been a Peate, his first over could not have been treated with a more flattering respect. The consequence was that he opened with a maiden also.

My turn had now arrived. I was called on to face the finest amateur bowler in England. Judging by the one over of his that I had had the privilege of witnessing, he appeared to combine the pace of a Kortright with the wiles of a Spofforth. Taking him altogether, he did not seem to be the nicest bowler in the world for a man of small experience and ordinary ability to oppose. But I remembered vaguely that the wicket was perfection, and that a straight bat would take a lot of beating. Besides, the black mists had lifted somewhat from my eyes, and the beastly funk had considerably decreased, as it often does when one is actually at work. All the same, I took my guard without knowing exactly what I did; I observed the field without knowing precisely how it was arranged, yet could see enough of it to be aware that point was looking particularly grim, and half inclined to chuckle, as though saying to himself, “Oh, he’s a young ’un, is he?”

It was perhaps the sardonic countenance of point that stirred the old Adam in me, for suddenly I took heart of grace, recollected the Captain’s “Play your usual, and you’re bound to get ’em,” and made up my mind to play out at H. C. Trentham as though my life depended on it. All the same, I could have wished that the cap I wore was my own, and not two sizes smaller than it should be, and that I could divest my brain of Miss Grace’s sinister remark anent Charlie’s arm getting over the screen, at the end at which (doubtless at her suggestion) he had gone on to bowl. Besides, he was grinning in a way that, though surely very self-satisfied and ridiculous, was disconcerting to a high degree. I certainly think that if in the umpire’s opinion a bowler takes too great liberties with his face at any period of his delivery of the ball, the said umpire should be empowered to “no-ball” the said bowler. Probably the counties will petition M.C.C.

I planted my right foot on the edge of the crease with mathematical care, and set myself to meet the best bowler at either ’Varsity since Sammy Woods. My straining eyes never left him for an instant as he picked the ball up, worked his thumb up and down the seam, rubbed it on the ground, and then walked jauntily to his starting-point. I could see him all the way; the beautiful clear sunlight, the bright new red ball, and my own intentness almost enabled me to read the maker’s name on the cover as he held it in his hand whilst he walked, trotted, galloped to the crease. As he brought his arm high over his head, despite the cessation of the screen’s assistance, I could see the thumb and two fingers in which he grasped the ball and every bit of his powerful wrist work. I had no time to think or to know where the ball was, however. But as it came humming from his hand instinct said, “Go forward hard!” and forward I went, leg, bat, and elbow, for all that I was worth. There was a delicious vibration that told me the ball was timed to the second full in the middle of the bat. It flew like a streak to mid-off all along the carpet; but mid-off happened to be a county man, and it was back in the bowler’s hands and threatening the Captain’s wicket just as “No!” had left my mouth. And there was a personal compliment implied in the blinking eyes of H. C. Trentham and the benevolent smile of H. J. Halliday that was a recompense for all the pains I was enduring and many hours of “duck”-requited toil. I was conscious of an elated thrill running through my fibres as I awaited number two. Again I watched it eagerly as it came spinning through the sunlight and humming like a top; again I could not say exactly where it was, but out went bat, and leg, and elbow as before, and mid-off was afforded another opportunity for the exhibition of his skill. I set myself defiantly for number three. Let H.C. Trentham bowl his heart out. The third came along humming, and whizzing, and spinning in the manner of the other two, but I had a vague sort of idea that it was a little wider and a little farther up. It was faster than an express train, but it merely appeared to delicately kiss the middle of the bat in the gentlest, sweetest way.

“Oh, well hit!” came the voice of the Captain down the wicket. The crowd broke into a roar, and in a perfect ecstasy I looked into what I guessed should be the direction of the ball. Behold! there was cover-point on the verge of the boundary waiting whilst a spectator officiously returned it. It was merely the force of habit that was responsible for that fourer, but the sensation of pure rapture was incomparable. As there is nothing in the whole range of poetry or prose with which to point a parallel, it must be allowed that beside a perfectly-timed boundary hit, on a hard ground, from fast bowling, all other delights of this life are as nothingness.

The fourth ball came along in much the same way as the third, yet was appreciably shorter and slower. I left it severely alone. The fifth was a regular uprooting yorker, but I got my bat down in time and chopped it away. So much for the crack’s first over. I had broken my duck in the most handsome manner; I could see the ball; I was beginning to feel alarmingly happy; I never felt so fit and so much like making runs. And I had only to continue as I’d started to be sure of a trial for the county next week against Somerset. But I must restrain my eagerness, play steady, and keep cool.

The Captain adopted the same tactics of masterly inactivity in regard to the second over of the youthful T.S.M. He was quite an ordinary club bowler compared to his great brother at the other end. A shortish one was hooked quietly round to leg for a single, and it was my turn to meet him. There was not a hint of my previous vacillation in the way I took my guard. The buzzing in my head had altogether gone; my eye was as clear and keen as possible. I had had my baptism of fire already. This was very common stuff; indeed, so much so that I took the liberty of turning the second ball I had of it to leg for three.

It being the last ball of the over, I had again to face H. C. With a bowler of his quality it requires a man of very great inexperience to be quite at ease or to think of attempting liberties. Therefore, again I concentrated the whole of my attention on every ball; and the billiard-table pitch and a straight, unflinching bat enabled me to cope with his second over. It was a maiden, but it called for brilliancy on the part of mid-off, and a magnificent bit of fielding by Carteret in the slips, who saved a keen late cut from being a boundary to make it one. Each ball was timed to the instant; my wrists and the rare old blade with the wrapping at the bottom seemed to be endowed with magic; the sun was just in the right place; I had forgotten all about my cap, the screen, the might of the attack—forgotten everything but the joy of achievement, so supreme was the sense of making runs with certainty and ease from county bowling, in the presence of an appreciative crowd, on a great occasion. Here was Elysium. It was a sufficient recompense for a hundred failures. If I kept playing this game I couldn’t help but get ’em. Fifty was assured, perhaps; who knew——? But no man can be sanguine in regard to his first century. That is a bourn that few travellers ever reach.

The Captain played T. S. M. gently for another single. I trotted down blithely to the other end. He was still bowling his slow leg-breaks, but it would be folly to attempt to drive him, as his flight was so deceptive; besides, he had three men out. One ball which he delivered a full two yards behind the crease was tossed up so high that it was difficult to resist, as it appeared to be almost a half-volley at first sight. It actually dropped shorter than his others, however. This was the ball with which he usually got his wickets; and although, crude as it was, it might do well enough for schoolboys, it was to be hoped that he didn’t expect a man who intended to appear next week for his county to fall a victim to it! If he did, he would very probably be disappointed. The feel of that three to leg was still lingering in my wrist, and I was certain that this stroke could be played with impunity on this wicket. Besides, it would show the Captain at the other end that I was by no means content to follow his lead, but had resources of my own. Again, if I persevered in getting T. S. M. away to leg, he would be certain to pitch them up a bit, and if he could only be persuaded to do that, sure as fate I should go out to him and lift him clean over the ring! It wasn’t such a very big hit; besides, I felt capable of doing anything with ordinary club bowling. Really, I never felt so fit, and on such excellent terms with everybody and everything! When I received the first ball of T. S. M.’s next over I had a plan of the positions of the on-side fielders in the corner of my eye. But it was such an excellent length that I had to play defensively. To my infinite pleasure, I immediately saw that the second was his usual shortish one. I promptly prepared to help myself to another three, stepped into my wicket so to do, but was so anxious to seize my opportunity that I had not troubled to note exactly how short it was. Therefore it rose a little higher than I expected, and I was also a little bit too soon. It hit me just above the pad with an almost caressing gentleness.

“How was that?” said the bowler, turning round to the umpire.

This didn’t bother me in the least. I merely felt a trifle annoyed that my ardour had caused me to let off so bad a ball. But my pleasant meditations were suddenly disturbed by adjacent voices,—

“Chuckerrupp!”

It never entered my head that I could be out by any possibility. The ball was a very vulgar long hop. I looked at the umpire with an air of bewilderment. He had a stolid solemnity that was funereal. I saw his hand go up. Thereon, with the blood buzzing into my ears, I made tracks for the pavilion. All the way I went I could not realize that I was out. My only sensation was the not unpleasing one of walking swiftly. Dead silence reigned as I marched in head down, thinking of nothing in particular. But the vision of the umpire’s upthrown hand seemed to be painted on my retina.

The Ancient was in the dressing-room brandishing his bat.

“Rough luck, old man!” he said.

Thereupon he went out to take my vacant place at the wicket, while I sat down, slowly mopped my wet face, rinsed my parched mouth, and then proceeded to take my pads off in the dullest, most apathetic manner.