03 Tales of St.Austin's Page 2

  And so it came about that Harrison, enjoying himself one night, after the manner of his kind, was suddenly dropped upon with violence. He had constructed an ingenious machine, consisting of a biscuit tin, some pebbles, and some string. He put the pebbles in the tin, tied the string to it, and placed it under a chest of drawers. Then he took the other end of the string to bed with him, and settled down to make a night of it. At first all went well. Repeated inquiries from Tony failed to produce the author of the disturbance, and when finally the questions ceased, and the prefect appeared to have given the matter up as a bad job, P. St H. Harrison began to feel that under certain circumstances life was worth living. It was while he was in this happy frame of mind that the string, with which he had just produced a triumphant rattle from beneath the chest of drawers, was seized, and the next instant its owner was enjoying the warmest minute of a chequered career. Tony, like Brer Rabbit, had laid low until he was certain of the direction from which the sound proceeded. He had then slipped out of bed, crawled across the floor in a snake-like manner which would have done credit to a Red Indian, found the tin, and traced the string to its owner. Harrison emerged from the encounter feeling sore and unfit for any further recreation. This deed of the night left its impression on Harrison. The account had to be squared somehow, and in a few days his chance came. Merevale’s were playing a ‘friendly’ with the School House, and in default of anybody better, Harrison had been pressed into service as umpire. This in itself had annoyed him. Cricket was not in his line—he was not one of your flannelled fools—and of all things in connection with the game he loathed umpiring most.

  When, however, Tony came on to bowl at his end, vice Charteris, who had been hit for three fours in an over by Scott, the School slogger, he recognized that even umpiring had its advantages, and resolved to make the most of the situation.

  Scott had the bowling, and he lashed out at Tony’s first ball in his usual reckless style. There was an audible click, and what the sporting papers call confident appeals came simultaneously from Welch, Merevale’s captain, who was keeping wicket, and Tony himself. Even Scott seemed to know that his time had come. He moved a step or two away from the wicket, but stopped before going farther to look at the umpire, on the off-chance of a miracle happening to turn his decision in the batsman’s favour.

  The miracle happened.

  ‘Not out,’ said Harrison.

  ‘Awfully curious,’ he added genially to Tony, ‘how like a bat those bits of grass sound! You have to be jolly smart to know where a noise comes from, don’t you!’

  Tony grunted disgustedly, and walked back again to the beginning of his run.

  If ever, in the whole history of cricket, a man was out leg-before-wicket, Scott was so out to Tony’s second ball. It was hardly worth appealing for such a certainty. Still, the formality had to be gone through.

  ‘How was that?’ inquired Tony.

  ‘Not out. It’s an awful pity, don’t you think, that they don’t bring in that new leg-before rule?’

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Tony bitterly, ‘the old rule holds pretty good when a man’s leg’s bang in front.’

  ‘Rather. But you see the ball didn’t pitch straight, and the rule says—’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Tony.

  The next ball Scott hit for four, and the next after that for a couple. The fifth was a yorker, and just grazed the leg stump. The sixth was a beauty. You could see it was going to beat the batsman from the moment it left Tony’s hand. Harrison saw it perfectly.

  ‘No ball,’ he shouted. And just as he spoke Scott’s off-stump ricocheted towards the wicket-keeper.

  ‘Heavens, man,’ said Tony, fairly roused out of his cricket manners, a very unusual thing for him. ‘I’ll swear my foot never went over the crease. Look, there’s the mark.’

  ‘Rather not. Only, you see, it seemed to me you chucked that time. Of course, I know you didn’t mean to, and all that sort of thing, but still, the rules—’

  Tony would probably have liked to have said something very forcible about the rules at this point, but it occurred to him that after all Harrison was only within his rights, and that it was bad form to dispute the umpire’s decision. Harrison walked off towards square-leg with a holy joy.

  But he was too much of an artist to overdo the thing. Tony’s next over passed off without interference. Possibly, however, this was because it was a very bad one. After the third over he asked Welch if he could get somebody else to umpire, as he had work to do. Welch heaved a sigh of relief, and agreed readily.

  ‘Conscientious sort of chap that umpire of yours,’ said Scott to Tony, after the match. Scott had made a hundred and four, and was feeling pleased. ‘Considering he’s in your House, he’s awfully fair.’

  ‘You mean that we generally swindle, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course not, you rotter. You know what I mean. But, I say, that catch Welch and you appealed for must have been a near thing. I could have sworn I hit it.’

  ‘Of course you did. It was clean out. So was the lbw. I say, did you think that ball that bowled you was a chuck? That one in my first over, you know.’

  ‘Chuck! My dear Tony, you don’t mean to say that man pulled you up for chucking? I thought your foot must have gone over the crease.’

  ‘I believe the chap’s mad,’ said Tony.

  ‘Perhaps he’s taking it out of you this way for treading on his corns somehow. Have you been milling with this gentle youth lately?’

  ‘By Jove,’ said Tony, ‘you’re right. I gave him beans only the other night for ragging in the dormitory.’

  Scott laughed.

  ‘Well, he seems to have been getting a bit of his own back today. Lucky the game was only a friendly. Why will you let your angry passions rise, Tony? You’ve wrecked your analysis by it, though it’s improved my average considerably. I don’t know if that’s any solid satisfaction to you.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘You don’t say so! Well, so long. If I were you, I should keep an eye on that conscientious umpire.’

  ‘I will,’ said Tony. ‘Good-night.’

  The process of keeping an eye on Harrison brought no results. When he wished to behave himself well, he could. On such occasions Sandford and Merton were literally not in it with him, and the hero of a Sunday-school story would simply have refused to compete. But Nemesis, as the poets tell us, though no sprinter, manages, like the celebrated Maisie, to get right there in time. Give her time, and she will arrive. She arrived in the case of Harrison. One morning, about a fortnight after the House-match incident, Harrison awoke with a new sensation. At first he could not tell what exactly this sensation was, and being too sleepy to discuss nice points of internal emotion with himself, was just turning over with the intention of going to sleep again, when the truth flashed upon him. The sensation he felt was loneliness, and the reason he felt lonely was because he was the only occupant of the dormitory. To right and left and all around were empty beds.

  As he mused drowsily on these portents, the distant sound of a bell came to his ears and completed the cure. It was the bell for chapel. He dragged his watch from under his pillow, and looked at it with consternation. Four minutes to seven. And chapel was at seven. Now Harrison had been late for chapel before. It was not the thought of missing the service that worried him. What really was serious was that he had been late so many times before that Merevale had hinted at serious steps to be taken if he were late again, or, at any rate, until a considerable interval of punctuality had elapsed.

  That threat had been uttered only yesterday, and here he was in all probability late once more.

  There was no time to dress. He sprang out of bed, passed a sponge over his face as a concession to the decencies, and looked round for something to cover his night-shirt, which, however suitable for dormitory use, was, he felt instinctively, scarcely the garment to wear in public.

  Fate seemed to fight for him. On one of the pegs in the wall hung a mackintosh, a large,
blessed mackintosh. He was inside it in a moment.

  Four minutes later he rushed into his place in chapel.

  The short service gave him some time for recovering himself. He left the building feeling a new man. His costume, though quaint, would not call for comment. Chapel at St Austin’s was never a full-dress ceremony. Mackintoshes covering night-shirts were the rule rather than the exception.

  But between his costume and that of the rest there was this subtle distinction. They wore their own mackintoshes. He wore somebody else’s.

  The bulk of the School had split up into sections, each section making for its own House, and Merevale’s was already in sight, when Harrison felt himself grasped from behind. He turned, to see Graham.

  ‘Might I ask,’ enquired Tony with great politeness, ‘who said you might wear my mackintosh?’

  Harrison gasped.

  ‘I suppose you didn’t know it was mine?’

  ‘No, no, rather not. I didn’t know.’

  ‘And if you had known it was mine, you wouldn’t have taken it, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not,’ said Harrison. Graham seemed to be taking an unexpectedly sensible view of the situation.

  ‘Well,’ said Tony, ‘now that you know that it is mine, suppose you give it up.’

  ‘Give it up!’

  ‘Yes; buck up. It looks like rain, and I mustn’t catch cold.’

  ‘But, Graham, I’ve only got on—’

  ‘Spare us these delicate details. Mack up, please, I want it.’

  Finally, Harrison appearing to be difficult in the matter, Tony took the garment off for him, and went on his way.

  Harrison watched him go with mixed feelings. Righteous indignation struggled with the gravest apprehension regarding his own future. If Merevale should see him! Horrible thought. He ran. He had just reached the House, and was congratulating himself on having escaped, when the worst happened. At the private entrance stood Merevale, and with him the Headmaster himself. They both eyed him with considerable interest as he shot in at the boys’ entrance.

  ‘Harrison,’ said Merevale after breakfast.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘The Headmaster wishes to see you—again.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harrison.

  There was a curious lack of enthusiasm in his voice.

  [3]

  L’AFFAIRE UNCLE JOHN (_A Story in Letters_)

  I

  From Richard Venables, of St Austin’s School, to his brother Archibald Venables, of King’s College, Cambridge:

  Dear Archie—I take up my pen to write to you, not as one hoping for an answer, but rather in order that (you notice the Thucydidean construction) I may tell you of an event the most important of those that have gone before. You may or may not have heard far-off echoes of my adventure with Uncle John, who has just come back from the diamond-mines—and looks it. It happened thusly:

  Last Wednesday evening I was going through the cricket field to meet Uncle John, at the station, as per esteemed favour from the governor, telling me to. Just as I got on the scene, to my horror, amazement, and disgust, I saw a middle-aged bounder, in loud checks, who, from his looks, might have been anything from a retired pawnbroker to a second-hand butler, sacked from his last place for stealing the sherry, standing in the middle of the field, on the very wicket the Rugborough match is to be played on next Saturday (tomorrow), and digging—_digging_—I’ll trouble you. Excavating great chunks of our best turf with a walking-stick. I was so unnerved, I nearly fainted. It’s bad enough being captain of a School team under any circs., as far as putting you off your game goes, but when you see the wicket you’ve been rolling by day, and dreaming about by night, being mangled by an utter stranger—well! They say a cow is slightly irritated when her calf is taken away from her, but I don’t suppose the most maternal cow that ever lived came anywhere near the frenzy that surged up in my bosom at that moment. I flew up to him, foaming at the mouth. ‘My dear sir,’ I shrieked, ‘are you aware that you’re spoiling the best wicket that has ever been prepared since cricket began?’ He looked at me, in a dazed sort of way, and said, ‘What?’ I said: ‘How on earth do you think we’re going to play Rugborough on a ploughed field?’ ‘I don’t follow, mister,’ he replied. A man who calls you ‘mister’ is beyond the pale. You are justified in being a little rude to him. So I said: ‘Then you must be either drunk or mad, and I trust it’s the latter.’ I believe that’s from some book, though I don’t remember which. This did seem to wake him up a bit, but before he could frame his opinion in words, up came Biffen, the ground-man, to have a last look at his wicket before retiring for the night. When he saw the holes—they were about a foot deep, and scattered promiscuously, just where two balls out of three pitch—he almost had hysterics. I gently explained the situation to him, and left him to settle with my friend of the check suit. Biffen was just settling down to a sort of Philippic when I went, and I knew that I had left the man in competent hands. Then I went to the station. The train I had been told to meet was the 5.30. By the way, of course, I didn’t know in the least what Uncle John was like, not having seen him since I was about one-and-a-half, but I had been told to look out for a tall, rather good-looking man. Well, the 5.30 came in all right, but none of the passengers seemed to answer to the description. The ones who were tall were not good looking, and the only man who was good looking stood five feet nothing in his boots. I did ask him if he was Mr John Dalgliesh; but, his name happening to be Robinson, he could not oblige. I sat out a couple more trains, and then went back to the field. The man had gone, but Biffen was still there. ‘Was you expecting anyone today, sir?’ he asked, as I came up. ‘Yes. Why?’ I said. ‘That was ‘im,’ said Biffen. By skilful questioning, I elicited the whole thing. It seems that the fearsome bargee, in checks, was the governor’s ‘tall, good-looking man’; in other words, Uncle John himself. He had come by the 4.30, I suppose. Anyway, there he was, and I had insulted him badly. Biffen told me that he had asked who I was, and that he (Biffen) had given the information, while he was thinking of something else to say to him about his digging. By the way, I suppose he dug from force of habit. Thought he’d find diamonds, perhaps. When Biffen told him this, he said in a nasty voice: ‘Then, when he comes back will you have the goodness to tell him that my name is John Dalgliesh, and that he will hear more of this.’ And I’m uncommonly afraid I shall. The governor bars Uncle John awfully, I know, but he wanted me to be particularly civil to him, because he was to get me a place in some beastly firm when I leave. I haven’t heard from home yet, but I expect to soon. Still, I’d like to know how I could stand and watch him ruining the wicket for our spot match of the season. As it is, it won’t be as good as it would have been. The Rugborough slow man will be unplayable if he can find one of these spots. Altogether, it’s a beastly business. Write soon, though I know you won’t—Yours ever, Dick

  II

  Telegram from Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G., to his son Richard Venables:

  Venables, St Austin’s. What all this about Uncle John. Says were grossly rude. Write explanation next post—_Venables_.

  III

  Letter from Mrs James Anthony (nee Miss Dorothy Venables) to her brother Richard Venables:

  Dear Dick—What have you been doing to Uncle John? Jim and I are stopping for a fortnight with father, and have just come in for the whole thing. Uncle John—_isn’t_ he a horrible man?—says you were grossly insolent to him when he went down to see you. Do write and tell me all about it. I have heard no details as yet. Father refuses to give them, and gets simply furious when the matter is mentioned. Jim said at dinner last night that a conscientious boy would probably feel bound to be rude to Uncle John. Father said ‘Conscience be—’; I forget the rest, but it was awful. Jim says if he gets any worse we shall have to sit on his head, and cut the traces. He is getting so dreadfully horsey. Do write the very minute you get this. I want to know all about it.—Your affectionate sister, Dorothy

&
nbsp; IV

  Part of Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin’s, to his father Major-General Sir Everard Venables, V.C., K.C.M.G.:

  … So you see it was really his fault. The Emperor of Germany has no right to come and dig holes in our best wicket. Take a parallel case. Suppose some idiot of a fellow (not that Uncle John’s that, of course, but you know what I mean) came and began rooting up your azaleas. Wouldn’t you want to say something cutting? I will apologize to Uncle John, if you like; but still, I do think he might have gone somewhere else if he really wanted to dig. So you see, etc., etc.

  V

  Letter from Richard Venables, of St Austin’s, to his sister Mrs James Anthony:

  Dear Dolly—Thanks awfully for your letter, and thank Jim for his message. He’s a ripper. I’m awfully glad you married him and not that rotter, Thompson, who used to hang on so. I hope the most marvellous infant on earth is flourishing. And now about Uncle John. Really, I am jolly glad I did say all that to him. We played Rugborough yesterday, and the wicket was simply vile. They won the toss, and made two hundred and ten. Of course, the wicket was all right at one end, and that’s where they made most of their runs. I was wicket-keeping as usual, and I felt awfully ashamed of the beastly pitch when their captain asked me if it was the football-field. Of course, he wouldn’t have said that if he hadn’t been a pal of mine, but it was probably what the rest of the team thought, only they were too polite to say so. When we came to bat it was worse than ever. I went in first with Welch—that’s the fellow who stopped a week at home a few years ago; I don’t know whether you remember him. He got out in the first over, caught off a ball that pitched where Uncle John had been prospecting, and jumped up. It was rotten luck, of course, and worse was to follow, for by half-past five we had eight wickets down for just over the hundred, and only young Scott, who’s simply a slogger, and another fellow to come in. Well, Scott came in. I had made about sixty then, and was fairly well set—and he started simply mopping up the bowling. He gave a chance every over as regular as clockwork, and it was always missed, and then he would make up for it with two or three tremendous whangs—a safe four every time. It wasn’t batting. It was more like golf. Well, this went on for some time, and we began to get hopeful again, having got a hundred and eighty odd. I just kept up my wicket, while Scott hit. Then he got caught, and the last man, a fellow called Moore, came in. I’d put him in the team as a bowler, but he could bat a little, too, on occasions, and luckily this was one of them. There were only eleven to win, and I had the bowling. I was feeling awfully fit, and put their slow man clean over the screen twice running, which left us only three to get. Then it was over, and Moore played the fast man in grand style, though he didn’t score. Well, I got the bowling again, and half-way through the over I carted a half-volley into the Pav., and that gave us the match. Moore hung on for a bit and made about ten, and then got bowled. We made 223 altogether, of which I had managed to get seventy-eight, not out. It pulls my average up a good bit. Rather decent, isn’t it? The fellows rotted about a good deal, and chaired me into the Pav., but it was Scott who won us the match, I think. He made ninety-four. But Uncle John nearly did for us with his beastly walking-stick. On a good wicket we might have made any number. I don’t know how the affair will end. Keep me posted up in the governor’s symptoms, and write again soon.—Your affectionate brother, Dick