“Think so?” he said nervously. “I’ve had an awful bad night, and I believe there’s something the matter with my wrist. I wish I wasn’t playing.”
The Worry’s life was a burden to him on match days. When he went in to bat he issued from the pavilion with a wild eye and a haggard mien, and a rooted idea that he was bound to be bowled first ball. This he invariably played forward to, as the strain on his nervous system was so severe that it was a physical impossibility for him to wait and receive it in his crease. He counted every run he got, and, if there was the faintest doubt about a snick, he would say, “I hope you noticed that I touched that, umpire.”
The crowd was already beginning to assemble. Vehicles and pedestrians were flocking in from twenty miles around. Hickory was a neighbouring village, only seven miles distant, but the rivalry was so keen that the local public-houses did no trade while the great match was in progress. It always had been so, and always would be. Even in the early forties Little Clumpton v. Hickory had become historical. Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch had actually graced the annual encounter in the Park. There was only one match a season; two would have been more than human endurance could have borne; and the Park, which generations of its noble owners had been very proud to lend for this nation-shaking function, was the only cricket-ground in the vicinity that could hope to accommodate the rival partisans. It might have been that once on a time the ’Varsity match had been played on other turf than Lord’s; but the Park was the only spot in England that had ever had the privilege of witnessing Little Clumpton v. Hickory on its velvet sward. Let kings depart and empires perish, but this always had been so and always would be!
To appear at Little Clumpton v. Hickory was not the lot of common men. Only the elect could hope to do so. To take wickets or make a score at this encounter was to become a classic in one’s lifetime. There were hoary veterans round about, whom the uninitiated might take to be mouldering mediocrities, but no—“see t’ owd gaffer theer? well, ’e wor a ’56 man; and t’ littlin theer across the rowad ’e wor ’59”—which being interpreted means that 1856 and 1859 were the dates of their distinction. Therefore do not let the young think, as unhappily they do just now, that they must write a book to become immortal. Why will not a few thousands of these seekers after fame, these budding novelists and early poets, take to cricket? For is it not more honourable, and certainly more glorious, to make a century at Little Clumpton v. Hickory, and make half a shire shout your praise, than to translate Omar Kháyyám and become a nuisance to posterity?
Presently I beheld a sight that nearly brought the tears into my eyes. The Optimist and the Pessimist were coming arm-in-arm across the grass. The lion lay down with the lamb at Little Clumpton v. Hickory. The Secretary walked alone with looks and words for none. He was so positively dangerous that the General Nuisance forbore to ask him what bowling we had got.
Having changed, I was sallying forth from the pavilion in the possession of bat and ball for the purpose of “having a knock” when a sudden palpitation made the crowd vibrate.
“’Ere’s Hickory! Good owd Hickory!”
A solid English-throated cheer announced that the enemy were in sight. A thrill ran through me as I gazed in the direction of their coming, for certainly the appearance of such a celebrated side was something to be seen. It was. A four-in-hand came bumping along the stretch of uneven meadow at a clipping pace. And to my indignant horror and bewilderment I saw that the reins were commanded by a person that wore nice white cuffs and a brown holland blouse. Conceive the cream of English cricket with their legs tucked up on the top of that rocking, creaking, jumping, jolting coach at the mercy of a person in a brown holland blouse! It was a thing that required to be very clearly seen before it could be accepted. In agony of mind I rubbed my eyes and looked more intently at the furiously on-coming vehicle. Never a doubt its pace was reckless, criminally reckless, considering the priceless freight it bore.
“What do you think of that?” I cried, turning in my distress to the man beside me. He happened to be the Ancient, so-called, because of his thoughtful air and his supernatural wisdom. “Just look at the confounded thing, I’m certain that girl’ll have it over. Gad! did you see her dodge that ditch by about three inches? Those men must be perfect fools! Why doesn’t that idiot beside her lend a hand? But some of these women are steep enough for anything. That girl ought to be talked to.”
“Well, suppose you do the talking,” said the Ancient, with his most reflective air. Then, as the drag lurched into our midst, wheels and harness grunting, the glossy animals in a lather; and they were drawn up with a sure hand in front of the pavilion while a cheering and gaping throng pressed about the wheels to impede the great men in their descent, the Ancient pensively continued, “Tell you what, my boy, I should rather like the chance of talking to that young person.”