CHAPTER I
The Night Before
IT was the eve of Little Clumpton versus Hickory. To those who are unfamiliar with these haunts of ancient peace this may seem a chronicle of the infinitely little. The Utopians, however, dwelling there remote, were quite aware that Waterloo, nay, even the Battle of Omdurman, was a picnic in comparison with Little Clumpton versus Hickory. Therefore let the nations heed.
Half our team were sitting in my billiard-room discussing the prospects of the morrow. Opinion really was unanimous for once: Little Clumpton must not lose.
“Lose!” said the Optimist grandly, “is it England, or is it Hickory?”
“Only Hickory,” said the Pessimist, “and the Trenthams.”
“It can be W. G. and Jackson, if they like to bring ’em,” said the Optimist; “and then they’ll finish sick. They’ll simply flop before Charlie’s ribsters, and Billy’s slows.”
“H’m!” said the Pessimist.
“Think so?” said the Worry.
“Certain,” said the Optimist. “Before now we’ve had ’em out for fifty.”
“Yes,” said the Pessimist, “and before now we’ve had ’em out for three hundred and fifty.”