STUMP CRICKET
April will soon be here," said Miss Middleton, with a sigh of happiness.
"Bless it," I agreed. "My favourite month. Twelve," I added conversationally, "is my lucky number, and Thursday the day of the week on which I do least work. When next the twelfth of April falls on a Thursday, which may not be for centuries, look out. Something terrific will happen."
"It's about now that one begins to wonder if one is in form, or likely to be."
"Just about now," I agreed. "I always say that when the draw is announced for the semi-finals of the English Cup, in which, of course, I take not the slightest interest whatever, and in fact hardly know what teams are left in for it, though I must say I hope Southampton wins this year, because, after all, Fry did play for them once, but they'll have a bit of a job to beat the Wolves you know—and then there's Newcastle and Fulham after that, and of course, you can't be ..."
"I'm tired of that sentence," said Miss Middleton.
"So was I. I only wanted to make it clear that I have no use for these spectacular gladiatorial combats. Give me cricket, the game of——"
Miss Middleton did not appear to be listening.
"Do you bowl as fast and as good a length as you talk?" she asked thoughtfully.
"No. More swerve perhaps. And I bowl with my head a good deal."
"I see. Quite different. Well, then, will you coach me this spring? Do, there's a dear."
"I should love to. I know all the things to say."
She got up excitedly.
"Come along then. I've got the rippingest bat. But you must promise not to bowl too fast."
I had said that I knew all the things to say, but as a matter of fact there is only one thing to say: "You should have come out to 'er, sir." (Or, I suppose, in Miss Middleton's case, "You should have come out to him, madam.") It's a silly remark to make, because it is just what one is always doing. At school I could come out to anything that was straight and not too high; the difficulty lay in staying in. Nobody ever told me how to do that.
Miss Middleton led the way to a walled-in tennis lawn, which lay next to the broccoli tops and things, and was kept away from it by only six feet of brick. If it had simply been a question of cabbage I should have said nothing, but there would be grapes there too.
"I know," said Miss Middleton. "But we must play against a wall. Don't bowl too much to leg."
I hadn't bowled since October the Fourth. The first post-October ball was a trifle over-pitched, and a little too much to the right. All the same I was just saying, "You should have come out to that one," when there was a crash from the direction of long-on.
"By Jove, I didn't know you were so good. Was that the grapes?"
"How awful! Yes. It simply seemed to fly off the bat. I did ask you not to bowl there, didn't I?"
She looked so penitent that I had to comfort her.
"It's all right," I said consolingly. "I had a man there. You would have been out all the way. Besides," I went on, "a little air will do the grapes good. They stay all the time in one hot room, and then when they go out into the cold, they don't muffle up, and the natural consequence is—— Or am I thinking of influenza?"
"Never mind. We must remember not to do it again, that's all. Give me some to cut."
There are several ways of cutting. For myself, I was taught to cut "square" with the left leg across and "late" with the right, the consequence being that I can do neither. W.G. (to work downwards) generally uses the fore-arm for the stroke, Ranji the wrist. Miss Middleton keeps both feet together and puts her whole body into it; and the direction in which the ball travels is towards long-on. There was another crash.
"Golf is your game," I said admiringly. "You lay it dead on the greenhouse every time."
"I say, what shall we do? Father will be furious."
I looked at my watch.
"I can just catch the three-twenty-five," I said.
"Oh, don't be a coward, when it's all your fault for bowling so badly."
"Perhaps the glass is insured," I suggested. "It is generally."
"It's insured against hail," she said doubtfully.
I looked at the sky. It was one of the most beautiful blues I have seen.
"No," said Miss Middleton sadly.
"It will be a point for lawyers to argue, I fancy, what is actually meant by hail. You would probably define it at once as aqueous vapour cooled down in the atmosphere to the freezing point of water."
"I don't know. Perhaps I should."
"But 'hail' here obviously has a wider significance. I take it to mean 'anything that descends suddenly from the clouds.' I haven't 'Williams on Real Property' with me, but——"
"Come on," said Miss Middleton, "let's say it does mean that. And could you, please, keep them a bit more on the off?"
"It's no good my keeping them there if you don't."
The worst of coaching—I speak now as an expert—is that it is so difficult to know what to say when a lady whirls her bat twice round her head, gives a little shriek, gets the ball on the knee, and says, "What ought I to have done then?" The only answer I could think of was "Not that."
"I thought you knew all about coaching," she said scornfully.
"But, you see, it depends on what you were wanting to do," I said meekly. "If it was a drive you should have come out to it more, and if it was a cut you should have come down on it; while if it was a Highland fling you lacked abandon, and if you were killing a wasp——"
"A good coach would know what was the best thing to do with that particular ball, wouldn't he? And that's just what he would tell you."
"He wouldn't know," I said modestly. "You don't often meet that sort of ball in good cricket."
"No, I suppose not. That's why I didn't know what to do, I expect. You know I generally know exactly what to do, only I can't do it."
"Is that really so?" I cried excitedly. "Why, then, of course, you ought to coach me!"
* * * * * * *
We had a very jolly afternoon. I fancy I shall be in some form this year. Miss Middleton is one of the best bowlers I have seen, but I brought off some beautiful shots. I wanted some tea badly afterwards.
"What glorious days we have now," said Miss Middleton's mother, as she handed me a cup.
"Glorious," said Miss Middleton's father.
"H'm, yes," I said doubtfully. "But you know I'm afraid it won't last. It's beginning to look rather like—like hail."
"Yes," said Miss Middleton. "We both thought so."