They began with extreme caution. The first few overs were a repetition of their morning’s methods. There was no hurry for runs. The Ancient cocked one under his leg for two, and the Captain stole a single. This was the sum total of their scoring during the first ten minutes. Was Halliday never going to get his hundred? He still required one. The fielding was so keen and the bowling so straight that there still seemed an element of uncertainty about it. This assumed a palpable shape a moment later, when every man in the slips, point, the bowler, the wicket-keeper, and heaven knows who besides, yelled at the pitch of their lungs.
“How’s that?”
One could almost hear the great heart of the crowd beating through the terribly portentous silence, that so respectfully awaited the umpire’s verdict. The Optimist and I bent forward in our eagerness. Could it be that Halliday was to have the cup dashed from his lips in this manner? We despondently remembered that it was nine years since a man had scored a century for Little Clumpton v. Hickory. Suddenly the wicket-keeper threw down the ball with an impatient gesture. The crisis was passed. Halliday was given in. He cut Charlie’s next ball like a knife to the boundary. The scene that ensued is not to be described. Veterans cheered; strong men adjourned for beer. The best bowler in England to be collared to this tune! Little Clumpton 192 for 1. Halliday, not out, 103. And that this moment might be furnished with every joy on which the great British Public dotes, a small boy in the exuberance of the hour, thought well to fall from a tall tree wherein he was perched, and delighted the populace by showing it how easily he could break his collar-bone.
By cocking T. S. M. under his leg for another two, the Ancient completed his fifty in the following over. Runs were beginning to come as they pleased. Each batsman had satisfied his dreams. He could now afford to take liberties and play to the crowd a bit. The Captain did; the Ancient didn’t. It sums up the essential difference between the two. The Captain began to talk to T. S. M. He leapt out and hit him out of the ground for six. T. S. M. immediately went off, obedient, doubtless, to a peremptory command that appeared to proceed from the recesses of the ladies’ tent.
H. C., the lion-hearted, still continued to hurl them down at his best pace. But it was manifestly not his day. The Captain, with his score at 112, was palpably missed at the wicket. Charlie also beat the Ancient twice with successive balls, and occasionally knocked at that little batsman’s ribs, no doubt to remind him that he was becoming a nuisance. The Ancient, however, merely drew a long breath to assure himself that it was not a compound fracture, blinked reflectively, took a new guard, and continued as before. Two hundred went up, and still no separation. Matters were growing ominous. Men were heard to inquire what was the record score in Little Clumpton v. Hickory, by whom was it made, and when? It appeared that Hickory’s 503 for nine, in the pre-declaration days of 1887, held it. Would it be eclipsed? Runs still came at their own sweet will. With his score at 133, Halliday was missed off Charlie for the second time by the unhappy wicket-keeper. The crowd grew vigorous in its observations, and began to applaud the poor beggar every time he handled the ball. Whenever the British Public swarm, they invariably bring their manners with them.
The appearance of the “telegraph” was fast becoming a thing of beauty. Ten followed ten without the slightest hesitation. The bowling began to exhibit signs of getting used up. Charlie, still wicketless, had gone off, whilst that crowning glory of a good side, its fielding, was not taking itself quite so seriously as it did earlier in the day. But neither the Optimist nor I were, perhaps, as whole-hearted as we might have been in our enthusiasm. Our thoughts would keep straying to Miss Grace. Why had we not been born county cricketers? It was bitterness for me to reflect that I was already out for seven, and that my own impetuosity had caused me to forfeit a chance for which so many sighed in vain. As for the Optimist, he was conscious of certain rather pronounced weaknesses in his style, which he was too old now to correct.
“Perhaps she hasn’t seen you bat, though?” said I consolingly.
“She ain’t, that’s certain,” said he wearily; “and if I’m lucky, she never will!”
Miss Grace was now returning. We saw the assured figure of that young person, the perfection of finely curved and elegant strength, emerge from the interior of the ladies’ tent. Two very young men stepped out after her. Miss Grace turned round quickly, and although what she said was brief, it was apparently to the point, as the pair of them went back again without any delay whatever.
As Miss Grace came along the confines of the boundary to rejoin us, swinging her gloves as she walked, an act of self-denial denoted that here was no ordinary girl. The bowler was in the act of delivering, and she was compelled to cross the screen at his end. The ordinary girl would have been quite unable to resist the fascination of passing behind the bowler’s arm, and thereby delaying the game until she had gone on her way rejoicing in her crime. Miss Grace, however impossible it may actually seem, waited while the bowler delivered the ball, and afterwards ran across the screen as hard as she could in order to be well clear of his arm by the time he was ready to send down the next. The Optimist saw this also, and is prepared, I understand, to affirm it on oath in the presence of witnesses. And the pair of us will no doubt one day persuade the authorities at Newnham to recognise the pious character of her act by erecting a stained glass window to her honourable memory, even at the risk of causing that home of the higher learning to build a chapel in which to put it.