“Tom, you have a try that end,” said Captain George, throwing the ball to T. S. M. “Set the field where you want ’em.”
“Left-hand round the wicket!” the umpire announced to the batsman; “covers ’em both, sir.”
It was plain, by the irregular arrangement of the field, which had three men out, that T. S. M. was slow.
“You don’t want a third man; send him out into the country, and bring point round a bit!”
Now as these commands were issued most distinctly from the top of the coach, and as Miss Grace Trentham was at that moment the sole occupant of the same, she must be held responsible for them. A wide smile flickered in the face of every fielder, including that of the happy-go-lucky Hickory captain. But let it be observed, in passing, that there are captains to whom this advice, however Pallas-like, would not appear “good form.” It was evident that Miss Grace knew her man.
“By Jove! she’s right,” said the good-humoured soldier; “get round, Jimmy.”
“She always is,” said the Harrow captain, her youngest brother; “and I wish she wasn’t. She knows a jolly sight too much.”
“Why don’t she qualify for Kent,” said J. P. Carteret, as he waddled off to deep square-leg.
The Harrow boy began with a singular sort of movement that must have had a resemblance to the war-dance of the cheerful Sioux, or the festive Shoshanee, which developed into a corkscrew kind of action that was very puzzling to watch, and imparted to the ball a peculiar and deceptive flight. He was quite slow, with a certain amount of spin and curl. The Captain played right back to him every time, and, like the old Parliamentary hand he was, there was very little of his wicket to be seen, as his legs did their best to efface it. The Captain had come in with the determination to take no liberties. He meant to play himself thoroughly well in before turning his attention to the secondary matter of making runs. If T. S. M. had been a Peate, his first over could not have been treated with a more flattering respect. The consequence was that he opened with a maiden also.
My turn had now arrived. I was called on to face the finest amateur bowler in England. Judging by the one over of his that I had had the privilege of witnessing, he appeared to combine the pace of a Kortright with the wiles of a Spofforth. Taking him altogether, he did not seem to be the nicest bowler in the world for a man of small experience and ordinary ability to oppose. But I remembered vaguely that the wicket was perfection, and that a straight bat would take a lot of beating. Besides, the black mists had lifted somewhat from my eyes, and the beastly funk had considerably decreased, as it often does when one is actually at work. All the same, I took my guard without knowing exactly what I did; I observed the field without knowing precisely how it was arranged, yet could see enough of it to be aware that point was looking particularly grim, and half inclined to chuckle, as though saying to himself, “Oh, he’s a young ’un, is he?”