Chapter Eleven.
How Ponty takes his hand out of his pocket.
The Grandcourt match was the only match of the season which Templeton played away from home. All its other matches, the house match, and even the match against the town, were played in the Fields, in the presence of the whole school. But once every other year, Templeton went forth to war in drags and omnibuses against its hereditary rival, and mighty was the excitement with which the expedition and its equipment were regarded by every boy who had the glory of his school at heart.
Seventy boys, and seventy only, were permitted to form the invading army, the selection of whom was a matter of intrigue and emulation for weeks beforehand. But for a few broad rules, which eliminated at least half the school, the task might have been still more difficult than it was. For instance, all juniors, to the eternal wrath and indignation of the Den, were excluded. Further, all boys who during the term had suffered punishment, either monitorial or magisterial, all boys who had not shown up at the proper number of practices in the Fields, all boys who had lost a given number of “call-overs” forfeited the chance of getting their names on the “Grandcourt List,” as it was called.
Of the reduced company that remained, each member of the eleven had the right of nominating six, the remaining four being chosen by the patriarchal method of lot.
Altogether, it was admitted that the system of selection was on the whole impartial, although, as a matter of course, it involved bitter disappointments to many an enthusiastic and deserving cricketer.
Our heroes, being juniors, were of course out of it, and they warmly adopted the indignation of the Den against the gross tyranny of excluding the rising generation from taking part in the great school event.
But Dick was not a youth whose inmost soul could be satisfied with mere indignation. If a thing struck him as unjust, the desire to rid himself of the injustice took possession of him at the same time.
“Georgie,” said he to Heathcote, the day before the match, “it’s all rot! We must go, I tell you.”
“How can we? We should get bowled out, to a certainty, before we started.”
“But, Georgie, it’s no end of a day, fellows say; you get put up like lords at Grandcourt, and the spread afterwards is something scrumptious.”
“Yes, but what chance should we stand of that when every one will know we’re mitching?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t say anything if once we got there. I tell you, old man, I’d risk a good bit to do it. Think of the crow we’d have at the next Den.”
“How should we get over, though?”
“Oh, I know some of the Fourth. They might smuggle us into their trap, or we could hang on somehow. Bless you! the fellows will be too festive to notice us. What do you say?”
“All right; I’m on to try it,” said Heathcote, not feeling very sanguine.
“Right you are. Keep it quiet, I say, and come down to ‘Tub’ early to-morrow.”
Which being arranged, the two dissemblers went down and addressed a monster meeting of the Den, denouncing everybody and vowing vengeance on the oppressor.
At “Tub time” next morning, Dick met his friend with a radiant face.
“It’s all right,” said he; “I’ve been over to the Mews and had a look at the traps, and one of them’s got a bar underneath we can easily hang on to.”
“Rather a grind hanging on to a bar for two hours!” suggested Heathcote.
“Bless you! that won’t hurt. Besides, we might get a lift further on; in fact, one of the coachmen said for five bob he’d stow us away in the boot.”
“That would be less dusty,” said Heathcote; “but—”
“Look here,” said Dick eagerly, as he and his friend stood side by side on the spring-board ready for a plunge, “what howling asses we are! Of course all the fellows will go on the top of the omnibuses, so if we cut round to the stables directly after breakfast, we can stow ourselves away inside one, under the seat, and then we shall have it all to ourselves.”
“All right,” said Heathcote, looking at last as if he saw his way to the venture.
And the two friends forthwith dived, and turned the plan over beneath the waves.
When, punctually at ten o’clock, the six coaches paraded in the great Quadrangle, no one noticed the absence of Dick and his henchman in the crowd that assembled to watch the departure of the lucky seventy. Nor when coach one had started with the Eleven, and coaches two, three, and four had carried off the rest of the Sixth and Fifth, did any one suspect that coach five had taken up two of its passengers already.
The Upper and Middle Fourth, who boarded this vehicle, had little idea, as they pitched their coats and wraps inside and mounted themselves to the top, that, like the birds who buried the babes in the wood beneath the leaves, they were hiding the light of day from two innocents who lay one under either seat, with their noses to the fresh air and their hearts very decidedly in their mouths.
“Chock full up here,” cried a voice from the top, which Dick, even in his retirement, recognised as belonging to Duffield, the post fag, who, by virtue of his office, was just out of the Den; “you kids will have to go inside.”
“Oh, I say, you might let us up,” replied one of the “kids” in question, in tones of expostulation; “we won’t take up much room. It’s so jolly stuffy inside.”
“So it is,” inwardly ejaculated the two stowaways.
“Just the place for you. You can play oughts-and-crosses and enjoy yourselves. There’s not standing room up here,” cried Duffield.
“Can’t we stand on the step?”
“No; Hooker’s bagged the bottom step, and I’ve bagged the one half up this side as soon as we start.”
The lurkers gasped. They had not reckoned on the steps being occupied and their snug retreat raked by the eyes of the bumptious Hooker.
“Can we stand on them till you’re ready, I say?” once more asked the persevering Fourth-formers.
“Why can’t you go inside? I say, though,” added the post fag, “there’s room for two on the next coach. Hop up, or you’ll be out of it!”
To the relief of our heroes, the youngsters yapped off on the new scent; and they presently had the satisfaction of hearing their voices raised in a halloo of triumph from the box of coach six.
“All right!” cried a master, as the last man squeezed up to his perch.
Then arose great cheers and counter-cheers, not unmixed with yells, as the cavalcade drove off in style, followed by Templeton in full cry as far as the great gate, where they parted company, amid shouts that brought all the town to its windows.
Once clear of the school, our heroes breathed more freely in more senses than one. As long as Hooker kept guard of the lower step, and Duffield’s legs swayed about on the other, they were unable to do more than quietly push back the coats and put their heads out. But both these amateur conductors were too much occupied in hailing passers-by and protecting their caps from the assaults of their own friends above to bestow much attention to the inside of a coat-strewn, stuffy vehicle; and in time our heroes found they might venture to whisper across the floor and attempt in a quiet way to make themselves more comfortable; “Beastly dusty,” said Heathcote; “it gets in my mouth.”
“Wouldn’t mind that,” said Dick, “if I didn’t get pins-and-needles in my arms. I’ve a good mind to turn over.”
Here they were sent back like rabbits to their holes by the scare of a free fight taking place on the lower step between Hooker and a town youth, whom he had aggrieved by discharging a broadside of peas on a tender portion of his visage.
The fight was a sharp one, for the burly town youth was a “tartar,” and had more than one grudge to settle with the Templeton boys. He managed to get a footing on the step, and hooking one elbow securely over the door, worked his other arm with great effect on the unfortunate Hooker. The whole fray was so suddenly got up that those on the roof knew nothing about it, and Duffield was so occupied with kicking at the intruder with his one spare leg that he quite forgot to raise a war cry.
The town boy proved equal to his two antagonists. Duffield was early rendered hors de combat by his spare foot being captured and tucked under the arm by which the enemy hung on to the door. And Hooker himself was gradually getting ousted from his perch, and might have been finally dropped on to the road, had not an unexpected diversion in his favour rescued him.
This was made by no one less than Dick, who, having taken in with a quick eye the position of affairs, saw that Templeton demanded his services, cost him what they might. He, therefore, summoned Heathcote to back him up, and taking an overcoat from the pile, cast it adroitly over the head of the town boy just as he had edged Hooker on to the very margin of the step. This, of course, settled the business. Duffield got back his foot, and Hooker got his arm once more over the door. The former raised a cry of “Cad hanging on!” The latter shouted, “Whip behind!” The occupants of coach six yelled, “Chuck him over!” And putting one thing with another, the town boy decided that he would be more comfortable on the pavement than where he was. So he dropped off, leaving his hat behind him, which trophy was immediately seized and passed aloft, amid universal triumph, and displayed proudly on the top of a bat, on coach five, until the cavalcade was clear of the town.
“Who scragged that fellow?” asked Hooker, as soon as the campaign was over, looking up and down.
“I don’t know,” said Duffield. “Is there any one inside?”
Dick, who had been gradually trying to edge back to his retreat, deemed it prudent to make a clean breast of it at once, while the two “step” men owed him their thanks.
“I say, Hooker,” said he, putting up his head behind the pile of wraps in a manner that made the gentleman addressed almost fall off with fright, “don’t say anything—I scragged him. Heathcote and I wanted so awfully to see the match. Keep it dark, I say.”
Hooker put his head into the window, and whistled.
“You’ll get in a frightful row,” said he, consolingly; “never mind, I’ll say nothing. Cover up, and don’t let the chaps see you.”
They took his advice as cheerfully as they could, and even endured pleasantly the occasional pea-shooter practice with which, by way of enlivening their solitude, he was good enough to favour them.
They had an anxious drive on the whole. For besides Hooker’s pea-shooter and the dismal prophecies he kept calling in to them of the terrible fate that awaited them on their return to Templeton, they found the dust and heat very trying. All that, however, was as nothing to the panic produced by a sudden rumour of a shower, and the possible descent of the whole of coach five into the interior. Happily for them Jupiter Pluvius changed his mind at the last moment, and sheered off. But the two minutes they spent in expecting him were calculated considerably to curtail the natural life of both.
It was hard lines, too, to hear all the festivities going on above and be able to take no part in them. They dared not even sit up for fear of becoming visible to the occupants of the box-seat of coach six, who had a full view of their interior. So they lay low for two mortal hours, and by the time Grandcourt was reached discovered that their dusty heads and limbs ached not a little.
“You’d better come out and cheek it,” said Hooker, as the coach pulled up; “you’re bound to get into a row, so you may as well enjoy yourselves.”
Dick’s intention had been to get taken on under the seat to the stables, and there make his escape. But after all there was not much less risk that way than in following Hooker’s advice. So they tumbled out with the crowd, and kept near Hooker, on whose support they felt entitled to rely, after the service rendered to him in the battle of the lower step.
Every one was so excited about the match, and so anxious to show off well to the Grandcourt boys, that no one took any notice of the two small interlopers, which was a matter of great thankfulness to our heroes.
Their spirits gradually rose as they found themselves sitting comfortably among a knot of Templetonians, in the glorious Grandcourt meadow, with a superb view of the match. They lost all their reserve, and joined wildly in the cheers for the old school, heedless of every consideration of prudence and self-preservation.
And they certainly had some excuse for their enthusiasm. For Templeton walked away from her enemy from the very first, in a style which amazed even her most ardent admirers.
In their first innings they put together 215 as smartly and merrily as if they were playing against an eleven of the Den. One after another the Grandcourt bowlers collapsed. No sort of ball seemed to find its way past the Templeton bats, and no sort of fielding seemed to hem in their mighty hits.
Pontifex—“dear old Ponty,” as everybody called him to-day—who had been breaking his friends’ hearts by his indolence and indifference all the term, stood up now, and punished the Grandcourt bowling, till the enemy almost yelled with dismay. The steady Mansfield was never steadier, nor Cartwright more dashing, nor Pledge more artful. Even Birket, who to-day fleshed his maiden bat on the Grandcourt meadow, knocked up his two and threes, with one cut for four into the tent, till it seemed to Templeton that cricket was in the air, and that even Hooker and Duffield could have pulled the match off single-handed.
But the batting was nothing to the play when Templeton was out and took the offensive. Pledge was more than dangerous, he was deadly, and knocked the balls about in a manner quite “skeery.” Heathcote was perfectly sure he could have made as good a stand as the Grandcourt captain, and began to lay down the law to his hearers as to how this man should have taken one ball and that man “drawn” another, till he became quite amusing, and was recognised for the first time by several of his schoolfellows.
However, the general interest in the match was still too keen to give him the notoriety his indiscretion deserved; and lulled by his apparent immunity and the luxury of his present circumstances, he, like Dick, quite forgot he had no right to be where he was, and even expostulated with Duffield for squashing him and interfering with his view.
Grandcourt went out for a miserable 80; of which 30 had been put on by one man. Of course they had to follow on, and as the time was short, it was agreed to curtail the usual interval, and finish up the match straight away.
So Grandcourt went in again, and although it fared somewhat better, was still unable to stem the tide of defeat. With 135 to get in order to avoid a single innings defeat, it was only natural they did not settle down to their task very cheerfully or hopefully. Pledge still sent down a ruthless fire from one end; and seemed even to improve with exercise. Nor was he badly backed up at the other end by Cresswell; while Mansfield, at the wicket, and Ponty, at point, seemed, as it were, to help themselves to the ball off the end of the bat, whenever they liked. By painful, plodding hard work, Grandcourt put up their hundred, and it spoke well for the chivalry of the victorious seventy, that they cheered the three figures as loudly as any one.
It was uphill work trying to hold out for the remaining 35 runs. But the losers were Englishmen, and long odds brought out their good qualities. With solemn, almost ferocious, faces, the two last men in clung to their bats, and blocked, blocked, blocked, stealing now a bye, pilfering now a run out of the slips, and once or twice getting on the right side of a lob with a swipe that drew the hearts of Templeton into their mouths.
A score of runs did those two add on to their hundred, and the seventy groaned as the chances of a single innings victory dwindled run by run.
“Most frightful soak if they do us,” said Dick, addressing the audience generally. “Why don’t they try Mansfield?”
“Shut up. Lie down under the seat, and don’t talk to me,” said Hooker, flushed with excitement.
“Pledge has bowled four maidens running,” said Heathcote, determined that no one should blame the bowler he had assisted to train.
“What’s the use of bowling maidens? Why don’t he bowl the boys, and have done with it?” said Duffield.
Dick looked at Heathcote; Heathcote looked at Dick; Duffield hummed a ditty. How could he do such a thing at such a time, and in such a place? Oh, had he been only in the Mountjoy waggonette on a lonely road, what a business meeting they could have held! As it was, there was only time to crush the debtor’s hat down over his eyes, and dig him on each side in the ribs, when a general stir betokened some important movement on the field of battle.
“By George! they’re going to change bowlers,” said Hooker. “Quite time, too.”
“No, they’re not,” replied Dick, “they’re going to change ends. Awful low trick to put Cresswell with the light in his eyes.”
“Pledge has had it in his all the last hour,” said Heathcote.
“Shut up, you kids, and don’t make such a row. You can talk when we’re in at supper,” said a Fifth-form fellow.
The allusion was a depressing one. More than once it had crossed our heroes’ minds that supper was coming on; but the chances of their “cheeking in” (as they called it) to that part of the day’s entertainment were, to say the least, narrow.
At any rate, the allusion made them sad, and they relapsed into silence as the bowlers changed ends, and Pledge prepared to attack from his new base.
There was a sudden uncomfortable silence all round the meadow. Grandcourt felt that if they could weather the storm a few overs longer they might yet avert the disgrace of a single innings defeat. Templeton felt, with decided qualms, that unless the change told quickly, it had better not have been made at all. The eleven stepped in a bit, and watched the ball with anxious faces. Ponty, alone, with one hand in his pocket, yawned, and looked somewhere else. “What’s the odds to Ponty?” thought the seventy, marvelling how any one could look so unconcerned at such a crisis.
Pledge bowled one of his finest, awkwardest, most disconcerting slows. The cautious batsman was proof against its syren-like allurements, and stepped back to block what any one else would have stepped forward to slog. The ball broke up sharp against his bat, and Grandcourt began to breathe again as they saw its progress arrested.
But at that particular moment it appeared to enter dear old Ponty’s head to take his hand out of his pocket and stroll forward a pace or two from his place at point in the direction of the wicket. And somehow or another it seemed to him that while he was there he might as well pick up the ball, as it dropped off the end of the bat on its way to the ground.
Which he did. And as every one looked on, and wondered what little game he was up to, it occurred to the umpire that it was a catch, and that the match was at an end.
Whereupon, the truth flashed round the field like an electric shock, and the crowds broke into the meadow in wild excitement, while the seventy, crimson with cheers, formed column and went for their men.
Poor Ponty had a hard time of it getting back to the tent, and half repented of his feat. But it did him and Templeton good, when they came upon the headquarters of Grandcourt, to hear the hearty cheers with which the vanquished hailed their victors.
Chivalry is infectious. For the next quarter of an hour the meadow was given up to cheers by Templeton for Grandcourt, and cheers by Grandcourt for Templeton, in which the gallant seventy-two, despite their numerical inferiority, held their own with admirable pluck.
Then, a mighty bell tolled out across the meads, and conqueror and conquered, united in the brotherhood of appetite and good fellowship, turned in to supper, carrying their cheers with them.
Now was the hour of our heroes’ perplexity. For, be it said to their credit as gentlemen, that however easily they may have got over their scruples as to breaking Templeton rules, riding in Templeton coaches, and enjoying themselves in the Grandcourt meadows, they had some hesitation about making free with the Grandcourt supper without a rather more precise invitation than they were already possessed of.
So they lagged a little behind the seventy, put their Templeton badges conspicuously forward, and tried to look as if supper had never entered into their calculations.
“Aren’t you two fellows coming to supper?” said a Grandcourt senior, overtaking them as they dawdled along.
“Thanks, awfully,” said they; “perhaps there won’t be room.”
“Rather!” said the hospitable enemy, “you two won’t crowd us out.”
“We’ll sit close, you know,” said Dick.
“Better not sit too close to begin with,” said the Grandcourt boy, laughing, “or it’ll be real jam before supper’s over. Cut on and join your fellows, and squeeze into the first seat you can find.”
The first seat our heroes found was one between Ponty and the Grandcourt head master, which, on consideration, they decided not to be appropriate. They therefore made hard for the other end of the room, and wedged themselves in among a lot of jolly Grandcourt juniors, who hailed them with vociferous cheers, and commenced to load them with a liberal share of all the good things the hospitable table groaned under.
Happy for Dick and Heathcote had they taken advice and begun the orgy at half distance! But they survived the “jam;” and what with chicken pie, and beef and ham, and gooseberry pie and shandy-gaff, to say nothing of jokes and laughter, and vows of eternal friendship with every Grandcourt fellow within hail, they never (to quote the experience of the little foxes in the nursery rhyme) “they never eat a better meal in all their life.”
They could have gone on all night. But alas! envious time, that turns day to night, and hangs its pall between our eyes and the light of our eyes, put an end to the banquet. The coaches clattered up to the Grandcourt gate; the seventy, with their wraps and coats, were escorted, by their hosts in a body, to the chariots; horns sounded; cheers answered cheers; caps waved; whips cracked, and in five minutes the Grandcourt gate was as silent as if it guarded, not a fortress of hearty schoolboys, but a deserted, time-ruined monastery.