The actual facts are these: We arrived in Cumberland at the close of last autumn, and were as happy for some months as the days were long—and the days were very long indeed; everybody was kind and hospitable to us, and, on our parts, my port became a proverb and my daughters a toast. It was “Blathers, come and take pot-luck,” from almost any neighbour I fell in with on my walks; or, “Mr. Blathers, we see nothing of your good wife and family,” from the archdeacon’s lady, though we had been dining at the Cloisters three times within the fortnight; or “Lord and Lady Wapshaw have the——” but, no; the forms of familiarity, through which the high nobility communicate with their intimates, should not be lightly quoted. In a word, then, I was a popular man and “an accession to the county.”
In the early spring time I began to feel the country gentleman’s first grief; it came over with the swallows and, like them, never left my roof. Two of my acquaintances—men I had never esteemed as evil genii—rode over on an April day to Longfield; Sir Chuffin Stumps and Biffin Biffin of the Oaks; they were unusually cordial—quite empressés, my wife subsequently observed—to all of us, and after luncheon they desired to have some conversation with me in my study; that is the apartment wherein I keep my Landed Gentry, my stomach-pump (a capital thing to have in a country-house), and my slippers, and thither my two guests were ushered.
“It has always been the custom, my dear Blathers,” said the baronet, “for the tenant of Longfield Hall to be the president of the Nettleton Cricket-club; that we should offer, that he should accept that honor, is due to his position in the county” (and indeed there was scarcely a flat piece of ground big enough to play upon in all the district, except in my paddock, I well know). “Lather, your predecessor, was president; Singin was president before him; the Longfields of Longfield were presidents time out of mind; and you—Blathers—you will be president now?”
“Of course you will,” agreed Biffin.
“But, my dear sirs,” said I, “what shall I have to do?—what will be my duties, my—”
“Do!—nothing at all,” interrupted Sir Chuffin Stumps, “positively nothing; you have no duties, only privileges; let us have your ground to play upon; dine with us on Wednesdays in the tent, and on the great match-days; give a crust of bread and a shakedown to a swell from any long distance, now and then; you sit at the head of the festive board—your health is drunk continually—you are appealed to upon all the nice points of the game, and your decision is final. It’s a splendid post!”
“Splendid!” echoed Biffin.
“But I have not played at cricket for this thirty years,” I urged. “I don’t know the rules. I couldn’t see the ball, if you were to give me all creation. I’m as blind as a bat.”
“Ha, ha, very good,” laughed the baronet. “A bat—d’ye see, Biffin,—a bat? Blathers will do, depend upon it; he’ll keep the table in a roar. As for the game, Mr. President, it’s just what it used to be—round instead of under, that’s all; and they cut a good deal oftener and stop much less, perhaps, than they used to do.”
“Dear me,” said I, “then there’s not so many of them as there were, I suppose?”