EX NIHILO FIT MULTUM
I should like to explain just what happened to the ball. In the first place it was of an irreproachable length, and broke very sharply and cleverly from the leg. (The bowler, I am sure, will bear me out in this.) Also it rose with great suddenness ... and, before I had time to perfect any adequate system of defence, took me on the knee, and from there rolled on to the off-stump. There was a considerable amount of applause on the part of the field, due, no doubt, to the feeling that a dangerous batsman had been dismissed without scoring. I need hardly add that I did not resent this appreciation.
What I really wished to say to the wicket-keeper was (1) that it was the first fast wicket I had played on this summer; (2) that it was my first nought this season, and, hang it, even Fry made noughts sometimes; and (3) that personally I always felt that it didn't matter what one made oneself so long as one's side was victorious. What I actually said was shorter; but I expect the wicket-keeper understood just as well. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
After that, I walked nine miles back to the pavilion.
The next man was brushing his hair in the dressing-room.
"What's happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said truthfully.
"But you're out, aren't you?"
"I mean that nothing has eventuated—accrued, as it were."
"Blob? Bad luck. Is my parting straight?"
"It curls a bit from leg up at the top, but it will do. Mind you make some. I always feel that so long as one's side is victorious——"
But he was gone. I brushed my own hair very carefully, lit a cigarette, and went outside to the others. I always think that a nought itself is nothing—the way one carries it off is everything. A disaster, not only to himself but also to his side, should not make a man indifferent to his personal appearance.
"Bad luck," said somebody. "Did it come back?"
"Very quickly. We both did."
"He wasn't breaking much when I was in," said some tactless idiot.
"Then why did you get out?" I retorted.
"L.b.w."
I moved quickly away from him, and sat next to a man who had yet to go in.
"Bad luck," he said. "Second ball, wasn't it? I expect I shall do the same."
I thought for a moment.
"What makes you think you will have a second?" I asked.
"To judge from the easy way in which those two are knocking the bowling about, I sha'n't even have a first," he smiled.
I moved on again.
"Hallo," said a voice. "I saw you get out. How many did you make?"
"None," I said wearily.
"How many?"
I went and sat down next to him.
"Guess," I said.
"Oh, I can't."
"Well, think of a number."
"Yes."
"Double it. Divide by two. Take away the number you first thought of. What does that make?"
"A hundred."
"You must have done it wrong," I said suspiciously.
"No, I am sure I didn't.... No, it still comes to a hundred."
"Well, then, I must have made a hundred," I said excitedly. "Are you sure you haven't made a mistake?"
"Quite."
"Then I'd better go and tell the scorer. He put me down a blob—silly ass."
"He's a bad scorer, I know."
"By the way," I said, as I got up, "what number did you think of?"
"Well, it's like this. When you asked me to guess what you had made I instinctively thought of blob, only I didn't like to say so. Then when you began that number game I started with a hundred—it's such an easy number. Double—two hundred. Divided by two—one hundred. Take away the number you first thought of—that's blob, and you have a hundred left. Wasn't that right?"
"You idiot," I said angrily. "Of course it wasn't."
"Well, don't get sick about it. We all make mistakes."
"Sick, I'm not sick. Only just for the moment.... I really thought.... Well, I shall never be so near a century again."
At lunch I sat next to one of their side.
"How many did you make?" he asked.
"Not very many," I said.
"How many?"
"Oh, hardly any. None at all, practically."
"How many actually?"
"And actually," I said. ("Fool.")
After lunch a strange man happened to be talking to me.
"And why did you get out?" he asked.
It was a silly question and deserved a silly answer. Besides, I was sick of it all by this time.
"Point's moustache put me off," I said.
"What was wrong with Point's moustache?"
"It swerved the wrong way."
"I was fielding point," he said.
"I'm very sorry. But if you had recognised me, you wouldn't have asked why I got out, and if I had recognised you I shouldn't have told you. So let's forgive and forget."
I hoped that the subject was really closed this time. Of course, I knew that kind friends and relations would ask me on the morrow how many I had made, but for that day I wanted no more of it. Yet, as it happened, I reopened the subject myself.
For with five minutes to play their ninth wicket fell. Mid-off sauntered over towards me.
"Just as well we didn't stay in any longer."
"That's just what I thought," I said triumphantly, "all along."