Finally, the Model Man wrote to say that it would give him great pleasure to bring a team to the ground upon the following morning if the local talent promised to wear clothes. “My eleven will absolutely refuse to play against anybody in the nude,” he wound up.
An hour later a negro in a boat paddled out to us with an answer. He hailed us, and we asked him if his people would accept our terms.
“Yes, massa, we all put fings on, but we much sooner play cricket widdout.”
“Nonsense,” shouted back the Model Man. “Cricket is a civilised game, and must be followed in a civilised way, or not at all. We will be on the ground at ten o’clock.”
The messenger rowed off, and a great discussion began as to the constitution of our team. Everybody wanted to go to the match, and sit in the shade and look on and criticise, but no one much cared about playing. The Captain of the “Rhine” absolutely refused, to begin with. He said:
“I would do anything for my officers—anything in reason; but cricket is out of the question. I shall, however, be on the ground with some ladies. A good appreciative audience is everything in these cases. Moreover, I will umpire if the tide turns against us.”
The Treasure only consented to play after much pressure. He said:
“You know what the wicket is like; it’s simply mountainous, and black men have no control over their bowling. For you medium-sized chaps it may be comparatively safe, but bowling at me is like bowling at a haystack—you cannot miss. When I go in, the blacks never bother about the stumps, but just let fly at random on the chance of winging me. Last match here, I hit their crack fast bowler all over the island, and he got mad at last, and gave up attempting to bowl me, but just tried to kill me.”
“You scored off him, though,” said our Fourth Officer, who remembered the incident.
