(FOREWORD.—Margery wishes me to publish the following correspondence, which has recently passed between us. It occurs to me that the name under which I appear in it may perhaps need explanation. I hate explanations, but here it is.
When Margery was eight months old she was taught to call me "Uncle." I must suppose that at this time I was always giving her things—things she really wanted, such as bootlaces, the best china, evening papers, and so on—which had been withheld by those in authority. Later on these persons came round to my way of thinking, and gave her—if not the best china, at any rate cake and bread-and-butter. Naturally, their offerings, being appreciated at last, were greeted with the familiar cry of "Uncle." "No, dear, not 'Uncle,'—'Thank-you'" came the correction.)
I
DEAR THANKYOU,—I've some wonderful news for you! Guess what it is, but no, you never will. Well, I'll tell you.I can walk!Really and really.
It is most awfully interesting. You put one foot out to the right, and then you bring the left after it. That's one walk, and I have done seven altogether. You have to keep your hands out in front of you, so as to balance properly. That's all the rules—the rest is just knack. I got it quite suddenly yesterday. It is such fun; I wake up about five every morning now, thinking of it.
Of course, I fall down now and then. You see, I'm only beginning. When I fall, mother comes and picks me up. That reminds me. I don't want you to call me "baby" any more, now I can walk. Babies can't walk, they just get carried about and put in perambulators. I was given a lot of names a long time ago, but I forget what they were. I think one was something rather silly, like Margery, but I have never had it used lately. Mother always calls me O.D. now.
Good-bye. Write directly you get this. Your loving O.D.
II
MY DEAR O.D.,—I was so glad to get your letter, because I was just going to write to you. What do you think? No, you'll never guess—shall I tell you?—no—yes—no; well, I've bought a pianola!
It's really rather difficult to play it properly. I know people like Paderewski and—I can only think of Paderewski for the moment—I know that sort of person doesn't think much of the pianola artist; but they are quite wrong about it all. The mechanical agility with the fingers is nothing, the soul is everything. Now you can get the soul, thecon molto expressionefeeling, just as well in the pianola as in the piano. Of course you have to keep a sharp eye on the music. Some people roll it off just like a barrel-organ; but when I seeAllegroorAndanteor anything of that kind on the score, I'm on it like a bird.
No time for more now, as I've just got a new lot of music in. Your loving THANKYOU
P.S.—When are you coming to hear me play? I did "Mumbling Mose" just now, with one hand and lots of soul. (Signed) PADEREWSKI
P.P.S.—I am glad you can walk.
III
DEAR THANKYOU,—I am rather upset about my walking. You remember I told you I had done seven in my last? Well, this morning I couldn't do a single one! Well, I did do one, as a matter of fact, but I suppose some people would say it didn't count, because I fell down directly after, though I don't see that that matters—do you, Thankyou? But even with that one it was only one, and yet I know I did seven the day before. I wonder why it is. I do it the right way, I'm sure, and I keep my hands out so as to balance, so perhaps it's the shoes that are wrong. I must ask mother to get me a new pair, and tell the man they're for walks.
Nowdowrite me a nice long letter, Thankyou, because I feel very miserable about this. Itisright, isn't it, when you have the right leg out, only to bring the left one just up to it, and not beyond? And does it matter which foot you start with? Let me know quickly, because father is coming home to-morrow and I want to show him. Your loving
O.D.
P.S.—I am glad you like your pianola.
IV
DEAR O.D.,—Very glad to get yours. If you really want a long letter, you shall have one; only I warn you that, if once I begin, nothing less than an earthquake can stop me. Well, first then, I played the "Merry Widow Waltz" yesterday to Mrs Polacca, who is a great authority on music, and in with all the Queen's Hall set, and she said that my touch reminded her of—I've forgotten the man's name now, which is rather sickening, because it spoils the story a bit, but he was one of the real tip-toppers who make hundreds a week, and, well—that was the sort of man I reminded her of. If I can do that with a waltz, it stands to reason that with something classic there'd be no holding me. I think I shall give a recital. Tickets 10s. 6d. No free seats. No emergency exit. It is a great mistake to have an emergency exit at a recital....
(Three pages omitted.)
Really, O.D., you must hear me doing the double F in the "Boston Cake Walk" to get me at my best. You've heard Kubelik on the violin? Well, it's not a bit like that, and yet there's just that something which links great artists together, no matter what their medium of expression. Your loving
THANKYOU
P.S.—Glad you're getting on so well with your walking.
V
DEAREST THANKYOU,—Hooray, hooray, hooray—I did twenty-five walks to-day! Father counted. He says my style reminds him ofCancer Vulgarisrather. How many times canhedo it? Not twenty-five on the third day, I'm sure.
Isn't it splendid of me? I see now where I was wrong yesterday. I got the knack again suddenly this morning, and I'm all right now. To-morrow, I shall walk round the table. It is a longish way, and there are four turns, which I am not sure about. Howdoyou turn? I suppose you put the right hand out? Your very loving O.D.
VI
DEAR O.D.,—I am rather hurt by your letters. I have written several times to tell you all about my new pianola, and you don't seem to take any interest at all. I was going to have told you this time that the man in the flat below has sent me a note, just as if it had been a real piano. He says he doesn't mind my playing all day, so long as I don't start before eight in the morning, as he is in his bath then, and in listening to the music quite forgets to come out sometimes, which, I can see, might be very awkward. Write to yours affectionately, THANKYOU
VII
DARLING THANKYOU,—I am so sorry, dear, and I will come and hear your pianola to-morrow, and I think it lovely, and you must be clever to play so well; but you mustn't be angry with me because I am so taken up with my walking. You see, it is all so new to me. I feel as though I want everybody to know all about it.
Your pianola must be lovely, Thankyou.DearThankyou, could you, do you think, put all the letters we wrote to each other about my walking in some book, so that other people would know how to do it the way I do? You might call it "Letters on Walking," or "How to Walk," or—but you could get a better title than I could.Do!Your very loving O.D.
P.S.—I'm so glad about the pianola, and do you mind if I just tell you that Ididwalk round the table, corners and all?
VIII
DEAREST O.D.,—Right you are. I will think of a good title. Your loving THANKYOU
We don't know his real name, but we have decided to call him Arthur. ("Sir Arthur," I suppose he would be.) He stands in bronze upon the chimney-piece, and in his right hand is a javelin; this makes him a very dangerous person. Opposite him, but behind the clock (Coward!), stands the other fellow, similarly armed. Most people imagine that the two are fighting for the hand of the lady on the clock, and they aver that they can hear her heart beating with the excitement of it; but, to let you into the secret, the other fellow doesn't come into the story at all. Only Margery and I know the true story. I think I told it to her one night when she wouldn't go to sleep—or perhaps she told it to me.
The best of this tale (I say it as the possible author) is that it is modern. It were easy to have invented something more in keeping with the knight's armour, but we had to remember that this was the twentieth century, and that here in this twentieth century was Sir Arthur on the chimney-piece, with his javelin drawn back. For whom is he waiting?
"It all began," I said, "a year ago, when Sir Arthur became a member of the South African Chartered Incorporated Co-operative Stores Society Limited, Ten per cents at Par (Men only). He wasn't exactly a real member, having been elected under Rule Two for meritorious performances, Rule One being that this club shall be called what I said just now; but for nearly a year he enjoyed all the privileges of membership, including those of paying a large entrance fee and a still larger subscription. At the end of a year, however, a dreadful thing happened. They made a Third Rule—to wit, that no member should go to sleep on the billiard-table.
"Of course, Sir Arthur, having only got in under Rule Two, had to resign. He had already paid his large entrance fee, and (as it happened) his second year's subscription in advance. Naturally, he was annoyed....
"And that, in fact, is why he stands on the chimney-piece with his javelin drawn back. He is waiting for the secretary. Sir Arthur is considered to be a good shot, and the secretary wants all the flowers to be white."
At this point, Margery said her best word, "Gorky," which means "A thousand thanks for the verisimilitude of your charming and interesting story, but is not the love element a trifle weak?" (Margery is a true woman.)
"We must leavesomethingto the imagination," I pleaded. "The secretary no doubt had a delightful niece, and Sir Arthur's hopeless passion for her, after he had hit her uncle in a vital spot, would be the basis of a most powerful situation."
Margery said "Gorky," again, which, as I have explained, means, "Are such distressing situations within the province of the Highest Art?"
When Margery says "Gorky" twice in one night it is useless to argue. I gave in at once. "Butter," I said, "placed upon the haft of the javelin would make it slip, and put him off his shot. He would miss the secretary and marry the niece." So we put a good deal of butter on Sir Arthur, and for the moment the secretary is safe. I don't know if we shall be able to keep it there; but in case jam does as well, Margery has promised to stroke him every day.
However, I anticipate. As soon as the secretarial life was saved, Margery said "Agga," which is, as it were, "Encore!" or "Bis!" so that I have her permission to tell you that story all over again. Indeed, I should feel quite justified in doing so. Instead I will give you the tragedy of George, the other fellow (no knight he), as she told it to me afterwards.
"George was quite a different man from Sir Arthur. So far from being elected to anything under Rule Two, he got blackballed for the St John's Wood Toilet Club. Opinions differed as to why this happened; some said it was his personal unpopularity (he had previously been up, without success, for membership of the local Ratepayers Association); others (among them the proprietor), that his hair grew too quickly. Anyhow, it was a great shock to George, and they had to have a man in to break it to him. (It's always the way when you have a man in.)
"George was stricken to the heart. This last blow was too much for what had always been a proud nature. He decided to emigrate. Accordingly he left home, and moved to Kilburn. Whether he is still there or not I cannot say; but a card with that postmark reached his niece only this week. It was unsigned, and bore on the space reserved for inland communications these words:The old old wish—A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."
"But what about the javelin?" I asked Margery. (This fellow had a javelin too, you remember.)
"Gorky," said Margery, for the third time which means—
Well, upon my word, I don't know what it means. But it would explain it all.
Meanwhile, Sir Arthur (he was in my story, you know) is still waiting for the secretary. In case the butter gives out, have I mentioned that the secretary wants all the flowers to be white?
"In conversation," said somebody (I think it was my grandfather), "there should always be agive and take. The ball must be kept rolling." If he had ever had a niece two years old, I don't think he would have bothered.
"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing suddenly.
"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose."
"What's 'at?"
"Take your finger away. Ah, yes, that is dear uncle's eye. The left one."
"Dear uncle's left one," said Margery thoughtfully. "What's it doing?"
"Thinking."
"What's finking?"
"What dear uncle does every afternoon after lunch."
"What's lunch?"
"Eggs, sardines, macaroons—everything."
With a great effort Margery resisted the temptation to ask what "everything" was (a difficult question), or what everything was doing (a still more difficult one), and made a statement of her own.
"Santa Claus bring Margie a balloon from daddy," she announced.
"A balloon! How jolly!" I said with interest. "What sort are you having? One of those semi-detached ones with the gas laid on, or the pink ones with a velvet collar?"
"Down chimney," said Margery.
"Oh,thatkind. Do you think—I mean, isn't it rather——"
"Tell Margie a story about a balloon."
"Bother," I murmured.
"What's bovver?"
"Bother is what you say when relations ask you to tell them a story about a balloon. It means, 'But for the fact that we both have the Montmorency blood in our veins, I should be compelled to decline your kind invitation, all the stories I know about balloons being stiff 'uns.' It also means, 'Instead of talking about balloons, won't you sing me a little song?'"
"Nope," said Margery.
"Bother, she's forgotten her music."
"What did you say, uncle dear, what did you say?"
I sighed and began.
"Once upon a time there was a balloon, a dear little toy balloon, and—and——"
"What's 'at?" asked Margery, making a dab at my chest. "What's 'at, uncle dear?"
"That," I said, "is a button. More particularly, a red waistcoat button. More particularly still, my top red waistcoat button."
"What's'at?" she asked, going down one.
"That is a button.Description: second, red, waistcoat.Parents living: both.Injections diseases: scarlet fever slightly once."
"What's'at?"
"That's a—ah, yes, a button. The third. A good little chap, but not so chubby as his brothers. He couldn't go down to Margate with them last year, and so, of course—— Well, as I was saying, there was once a balloon, and——"
"What's 'a-a-at?" said Margery, bending forward suddenly and kissing it.
"Look here, you've jolly well got to enclose a stamped addressed envelope with the next question. As a matter of fact, though you won't believe me, that again is a button."
"What's 'at?" asked Margery, digging at the fifth button.
"Owing to extreme pressure on space," I began.... "Thank you. That also is a button. Its responsibility is greater than that of its brethren. The crash may come at any moment. Luckily it has booked its passage to the—— Where was I? Oh yes—well, this balloon——"
"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the last one.
"I must have written notice of that question. I can't tell you offhand."
"What's 'at, uncle dear?"
"Well, I don't know, Margie. It looks something like a collar stud, only somehow you wouldn't expect to find a collar-stud there. Of course it may have slipped.... Or could it be one of those red beads, do you think? N-no, no, it isn't a bead.... And it isn't a raspberry; because this is the wrong week for raspberries. Of course it might be a—— By Jove, I've got it! It's a button!"
I gave the sort of war-whoop with which one announces these discoveries, and Margery whooped too.
"A button!" she cried. "A dear little button!" She thought for a moment. "What's a button?"
This was ridiculous.
"You don't mean to say," I reproached her, "that I've got to tell you now what a button is?That," I added severely, pointing to the top of my waistcoat, "is a button."
"What's 'at?" said Margery, pointing to the next one.
I looked at her in horror. Then I began to talk very quickly.
"There was once a balloon," I said rapidly, "a dear little boy balloon, I mean toy balloon, and this balloon was a jolly little balloon just two minutes old, and he wasn't always asking silly questions, and when he fell down and exploded himself they used to wring him out and say, 'Come, come, now, be a little airship about it,' and so——"
"What's 'at?" asked Margery, pointing to the top button.
There was only one way out of it. I began to sing a carol in a very shrill voice.
All the artist rose in Margery.
"Don't sing," she said hurriedly. "Margie sing. What will Margie sing, uncle?"
Before I could suggest anything, she was off. It was a scandalous song. She began by announcing that she wanted to be among the boys, and (guessing that I should object) assured me that it was no good kicking up a noise, because it was no fun going out when there weren't any boys about, you were so lonely-onely-onely ...
Here the tune became undecided; and, a chance word recalling another context to her mind, she drifted suddenly into a hymn, and sang it with the same religious fervour as she had sung the other, her fair head flung back and her hazel eyes gazing into heaven ...
I listened carefully. This was a bit I didn't recognise.... The tune wavered for a moment ... and out of it these words emerged triumphant,
"Talk of me to the boys you meet,Remember me kindly to Regent Street,And give them my love in the——"
"What's 'at, uncle?"
"That," I said, stroking it, "is dear uncle's nose."
"What's——"
By the way, would you like it all over again? No? Oh, very well.
"In the afternoon they came unto a landIn which it seemed always afternoon."
I am like Napoleon in that I can go to sleep at any moment; I am unlike him (I believe) in that I am always doing so. One makes no apology for doing so on Sunday afternoon—the apology, indeed, should come from the others, the wakeful parties.
"Uncle?"
"Margery."
"Will you come and play wiv me?"
"I'm rather busy just now," I said, with closed eyes. "After tea."
"Why are you raver busy just now? My baby's only raver busy sometimes."
"Well, then, you know what it's like; how important it is that one shouldn't be disturbed."
"But you must be beturbed when I ask you to come and play wiv me."
"Oh, well ... what shall we play at?"
"Trains," said Margery eagerly.
When we play trains I have to be a tunnel. I don't know if you have ever been a tunnel? No; well, it's an over-rated profession.
"We won't play trains," I announced firmly, "because it's Sunday."
"Why not because it's Sunday?"
(Oh, you little pagan!)
"Hasn't mummy told you all about Sunday?"
"Oh yes, Maud did tell me," said Margery casually. Then she gave an innocent little smile. "Oh, I called mummy Maud," she said in pretended surprise. "I quitefoughtI was upstairs!"
I hope you follow. The manners and customs of good society must be observed on the ground floor where visitors may happen; upstairs one relaxes a little.
"Do you know," Margery went on with the air of a discoverer, "you mustn't say 'prayers' downstairs. Or 'corsets.'"
"I never do," I affirmed. "Well, anyhow I never will again."
"Why mayn't you?"
"I don't know," I said sleepily.
"Say prehaps."
"Well—prehapsit's because your mother tells you not to."
"Well, 'at's asillyfing to say," said Margery scornfully.
"It is. I'm thoroughly ashamed of it. I apologise. Good-night." And I closed my eyes again.
"I fought you were going to play wiv me, Mr Bingle," sighed Margery to herself.
"My name isnotBingle," I said, opening one eye.
"Why isn't it Bingle?"
"The story is a very long and sad one. When I wake up I will tell it to you. Good-night."
"Tell it to me now."
There was no help for it.
"Once upon a time," I said rapidly, "there was a man called Bingle, Oliver Bingle, and he married a lady called Pringle. And his brother married a lady called Jingle. And his other brother married a Miss Wingle. And his cousin remained single.... That is all."
"Oh, I see," said Margery doubtfully. "Now will you play wiv me?"
How can one resist the pleading of a young cheild?
"All right," I said. "We'll pretend I'm a little girl, and you're my mummy, and you've just put me to bed.... Good-night, mummy dear."
"Oh, but I must cover you up." She fetched a tablecloth, and a pram-cover, andThe Times, and a handkerchief, and the cat, and a doll's what-I-mustn't-say-downstairs, and a cushion; and she covered me up and tucked me in.
"'Ere, 'ere, now go to sleep, my darling," she said, and kissed me lovingly.
"Oh, Margie, you dear," I whispered.
"You called me 'Margie'!" she cried in horror.
"I meant 'Mummy.' Good-night."
One, two, three seconds passed rapidly.
"It's morning," said a bright voice in my ear. "Get up."
"I'm very ill," I pleaded; "I want to stay in bed all day."
"But your dear uncle," said Margery, inventing hastily, "came last night after you were in bed, and stayed 'e night. Do you see? And he wants you to sit on his chest in bed and talk to him."
"Where is he? Show me the bounder."
"'Ere he is," said Margery, pointing at me.
"But look here, I can't sit on my own chest and talk to myself. I'll take the two parts if you insist, Sir Herbert, but I can't play them simultaneously. Not even Irving——"
"Why can't you play vem simrulaleously?"
"Well, I can't. Margie,willyou let me go to sleep?"
"Nope," said Margery, shaking her head.
"You should say, 'No, thank you, revered and highly respected uncle.'"
"Nohankyou, Mr Cann."
"I have already informed you that my name is not Bingle; and I have now to add that neither is it Cann."
"Why neiver is it Cann?"
"That isn't grammar. You should say, 'Why can it not either?'"
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Say prehaps."
"No, I can't even say prehaps."
"Well, say I shall understand when I'm a big girl."
"You'll understand when you're a big girl, Margery," I said solemnly.
"Oh, I see."
"That's right. Now then, what about going to sleep?"
She was silent for a moment, and I thought I was safe. Then——
"Uncle, just tell me—why was 'at little boy crying vis morning?"
"Which little boy?"
"Ve one in 'e road."
"Oh, that one. Well, he was crying because his uncle hadn't had any sleep all night, and when he tried to go to sleep in the afternoon——"
"Say prehaps again."
My first rejected contribution! I sighed and had another shot. "Well, then," I said gallantly, "it must have been because he hadn't got a sweet little girl of three to play with him."
"Yes," said Margery, nodding her head thoughtfully, "'at was it."
(ON CHOOSING A PROFESSION)
When, Jock, I saw you, debonair and bland,Shin perilously up the cottage grandPiano, with the bread-knife in your hand;—
When I observed your friendly little stare,Your guileless baby face, your general airOf "Golly, how on earth did I getthere?"—
When I remarked how cheerfully you crashedDown on the tea-things, not the least abashedTo see the same (mywedding present)smashed!—
Then as we wondered (having wiped the teaFrom off this waistcoat) "What's he going to be?"I knew at once why father thought, "The sea."
* * * * * *
There are who sit and languidly dictateLetters beginning "Yours of even date"—Each one designed to rope in six-and-eight;
Wherefore each letter carefully postponesThe moment when the other party ownsHis case is badly dished by "Rex v. Jones."
There are who daily in the safe retreatOf some Department gather round and bleatScandal and Art, until it's time to eat;
Return at three, and, having written "DearSir, your communication of last yearDuly received and noted"—disappear.
There are who do not hesitate to shoveTheir views of Babes and Budgets, Life and LoveOn paper—as it might be up above;
Who, fearless fellows, are not found to flinchWhen some Proprietor essays to pinchTheir holiest thoughts at eightpence for the inch.
* * * * * *
Such, Jock, as these are we who bear your nameContent (well, almost) with the good old gameOf moderate Fortune unrelieved by Fame.
But there are Nobler Souls about the place,Such spirits as have built our Island Race,Heroes who must, who simply must, havespace.
'Twas not to serve the pen that Nature gaveTo these their love of all that's large and brave;For Them an ampler life upon the Wave!
* * * * * *
So when your father (while I mop the tea)Says that he rather thinks you'll go to sea,Dear Jock, sweet Jock, your unclemustagree.
TO AN OLD BAT
When Vesper trails her gown of greyAcross the lawn at six or sevenThe diligent observer may(Or may)see, athwart the heaven,An aimless rodent on the wing. Well, thatIs(probably)a Bat....In any case I shall not sing of that.
————
O Willow, in our hours of ease(That is to say, throughout the Winter),I take you sometimes on my knees,And careless of the frequent splinter,Caress you tenderly, and sigh, and say,"Ye Gods, how long till May?"
And so as soon as April's hereI do not sob for Spring to show itsPale daffodils and all the dearOld flowers that keep the minor poets;I sing it just because a month (about)Will find you fairly out.
Revered, beloved, O you whose jobIs but to serve throughout the season—To make, if so it be, the Blob,And not (thank heaven!) to ask the reason—To stand, like Mrs Hemans' little friend,Undoubting to the end:
Old Willow, what a tale to tell—Our steady rise, from small beginnings,Ab ovo usque—usque—well,To eighty-four, our highest innings;(Ah me, that crowded hour of glorious lives—Ten of them, all from drives!)
Once only have you let me in,Through all the knocks we've had together;That time when, wanting four to win,I fairly tried to tonk the leather—And lo! a full-faced welt, without the leastWarning, went S.S.E.
A painful scene. In point of factI'm doubtful if I ought to hymn it;Enough to say you went and cracked,And left me thinking things like "Dimmit"(And not like "Dimmit"), as I heard Slip call"Mine!" and he pouched the ball.
Do you remember, too, the gameOne August somewhere down in DorsetWhen, being told to force the same,We straightway started in to force it....For half-an-hour or so we saw it through,And scratched a priceless two;
Or how the prayer to play for keepsAnd hang the runs, we didn't need 'em,So stirred us, we collected heapsWith rather more than usual freedom;Fifteen in fourteen minutes—till a catchAbruptly closed the match?
* * * * * *
Well, well—the coming years (if fine)Shall see us going even stronger;So pouring out the oil and wine,Let's sit and drink, a little longer;Here's to a decent average of ten!(Yours is the oil. Say when....)
—————
When Morning on the heels of NightPicks up her shroud at five and after,The diffident observer might(Or might not) see, beneath a rafter,A pensive rodent upside down. Well, thatIs (possibly) a Bat....In any case I have not sung of that.
I. THE CHOOSING OF THE DAY
As soon as I had promised to take an eleven down to Chartleigh I knew that I was in for trouble; but I did not realise how great it would be until I consulted Henry Barton. Henry is a first-class cricketer, and it was my idea that he should do all the batting for us, and such of the bowling as the laws allowed. I had also another idea, and this I explained to Henry.
"As you are aware," I said, "the ideal side contains five good bats, four good bowlers, a wicket-keeper, and Henry Barton."
"Quite so," agreed Henry.
"That is the principle on which one selects an eleven. Now, I intend to strike out a line of my own. My team shall consist of three authors or journalists, two solicitors, four barristers, a couple from the Stock Exchange, some civil servants and an artist or two. How many is that?"
"Nineteen."
"Well, that's the idea, anyhow."
"It's a rotten idea."
"No, it's a splendid idea. I wonder nobody has thought of it before. I send a solicitor and a journalist in first. The journalist uses the long handle, while the solicitor plays for keeps."
"And where does the artist come in?"
"The artist comes in last, and plays for a draw. You are very slow to-day, Henry."
Henry, the man of leisure, thought a moment.
"Yes, that's all very well for you working men," he said at last, "but what do I go as? Or am I one of the barristers?"
"You go as 'with Barton.' Yes. If you're very good you shall have an 'H' in brackets after you. 'With Barton (H)'"
The method of choosing my team being settled, the next thing was the day. "Any day in the first week in July," the Chartleigh captain had said. Now at first sight there appear to be seven days in the week, but it is not really so. For instance, Saturday. Now there's a good day! What could one object to in a Saturday?
But do you imagine Henry Barton would let it pass?
"I don't think you'll get eleven people for the Saturday," he said. "People are always playing cricket on Saturday."
"Precisely," I said. "Healthy exercise for the London toiler. That's why I'm asking 'em."
"But I mean they'll have arranged to play already with their own teams. Or else they'll be going away for week-ends."
"One can spend a very pretty week-end at Chartleigh."
"H'm, let me think. Any day in the week, isn't it?"
"Except, apparently, Saturday," I said huffily.
"Let's see now, what days are there?"
I mentioned two or three of the better-known ones.
"Yes. Of course, some of those are impossible, though. We'd better go through the week and see which is best."
I don't know who Barton is that he should take it upon himself to make invidious distinctions between the days of the week.
"Very well, then," I said. "Sunday."
"Ass."
That seemed to settle Sunday, so we passed on to Monday.
"You won't get your stockbroker on Monday," said Henry. "It's Contanger day or something with them every Monday."
"Stocktaking, don't you mean?"
"I dare say. Anyhow, no one in the House can get away on a Monday."
"I must have my stockbrokers. Tuesday."
Tuesday, it seemed, was hopeless. I was a fool to have thought of Tuesday. Why, everybody knew that Tuesday was an impossible day for——
I forget what spoilt Tuesday's chance. I fancy it was a busy day for Civil Servants. No one in the Home Civil can get away on a Tuesday. I know that sounds absurd, but Henry was being absurd just then. Or was it barristers? Briefs get given out on a Tuesday, I was made to understand. That brought us to Wednesday. I hoped much from Wednesday.
"Yes," said Henry. "Wednesday might do. Of course most of the weeklies go to press on Wednesday. Rather an awkward day for journalists. What about Thursday?"
I began to get annoyed.
"Thursday my flannel trousers go to the press," I said—"that is to say, they come back from the wash then."
"Look here, why try to be funny?"
"Hang it, who started it? Talking about Contanger-days. Contanger—it sounds like a new kind of guano."
"Well, if you don't believe me——"
"Henry, I do. Thursday be it, then."
"Yes, I suppose that's all right," said Henry doubtfully.
"Why not? Don't say it's sending-in day with artists," I implored. "NoteveryThursday?"
"No. Only there's Friday, and——"
"Friday ismybusy day," I pleaded—"my one ewe lamb. Do not rob me of it."
"It's a very good day, Friday. I think you'd find that most people could get off then."
"But why throw over Thursday like this? A good, honest day, Henry. Many people get born on a Thursday, Henry. And it's a marrying day, Henry. A nice, clean, sober day, and you——"
"The fact is," said Henry, "I've suddenly remembered I'm engaged myself on Thursday."
This was too much.
"Henry," I said coldly, "you forget yourself—you forget yourself strangely, my lad. Just because I was weak enough to promise you an 'H' after your name. You seem to have forgotten that the 'H' was to be in brackets."
"Yes, but I'm afraid I really am engaged."
"Are you really? Look here—I'll leave out the 'with' and you shall be one of us. There! Baby, see the pretty gentlemen!"
Henry smiled and shook his head.
"Oh, well," I said, "we must have you. So if you say Friday, Friday it is. You're quite sure Friday is all right for solicitors? Very well, then."
So the day was settled for Friday. It was rather a pity, because, as I said, in the ordinary way Friday is the day I put aside for work.
II. THE SELECTION COMMITTEE
The committee consisted of Henry and myself. Originally it was myself alone, but as soon as I had selected Henry I proceeded to co-opt him, reserving to myself, however, the right of a casting vote in case of any difference of opinion. One arose, almost immediately, over Higgins. Henry said:
(a) That Higgins had once made ninety-seven.
(b) That he had been asked to play for his county.
(c) That he was an artist, and we had arranged to have an artist in the team.
In reply I pointed out:
(a) That ninety-seven was an extremely unlikely number for anyone to have made.
(b) That if he had been asked he evidently hadn't accepted, which showed the sort of man he was: besides which, what was his county?
(c) That, assuming for the moment he had made ninety-seven, was it likely he would consent to go in last and play for a draw, which was why we wanted the artist? And that, anyhow, he was a jolly bad artist.
(d) That hadn't we better put it to the vote?
This was accordingly done, and an exciting division ended in a tie.
Those in favour of Higgins 1Those against Higgins 1
The Speaker gave his casting vote against Higgins.
Prior to this, however, I had laid before the House the letter of invitation. It was as follows (and, I flatter myself, combined tact with a certain dignity):—
"DEAR——, I am taking a team into the country on Friday week to play against the village eleven. The ground and the lunch are good. Do you think you could manage to come down? I know you are very busy just now with
Contangers,Briefs,Clients,Your Christmas Number,Varnishing Day,(Strike out all but one of these)
but a day in the country would do you good. I hear from all sides that you are in great form this season. I will give you all particulars about trains later on. Good-bye. Remember me to——. How is——? Ever yours.
"P.S.—Old Henry is playing for us. He has strained himself a little and probably won't bowl much, so I expect we shall all have a turn with the ball."
Or, "I don't think you have ever met Henry Barton, the cricketer. He is very keen on meeting you. Apparently he has seen you play somewhere. He will be turning out for us on Friday.
"P.P.S.—We might manage to have some bridge in the train."
"That," I said to Henry, "is what I call a clever letter."
"What makes you think that?"
"It is all clever," I said modestly. "But the cleverest part is a sentence at the end. 'I will give you all particulars about trains later on.' You see I have been looking them up, and we leave Victoria at seven-thirty A.M. and get back to London Bridge at eleven-forty-five P.M."
The answers began to come in the next day. One of the first was from Bolton, the solicitor, and it upset us altogether. For, after accepting the invitation, he went on: "I am afraid I don't play bridge. As you may remember, I used to play chess at Cambridge, and I still keep it up."
"Chess," said Henry. "That's where White plays and mates in two moves. And there's a Black too. He does something."
"We shall have to get a Black. This is awful."
"Perhaps Bolton would like to do problems by himself all the time."
"That would be rather bad luck on him. No, look here. Here's Carey. Glad to come, but doesn't bridge. He's the man."
Accordingly we wired to Carey: "Do you play chess? Reply at once." He answered, "No. Why?"
"Carey will have to play that game with glass balls. Solitaire. Yes. We must remember to bring a board with us."
"But what about the chess gentleman?" asked Henry.
"I must go and find one. We've had one refusal."
There is an editor I know slightly, so I called upon him at his office. I found him writing verses.
"Be brief," he said, "I'm frightfully busy."
"I have just three questions to ask you," I replied.
"What rhymes with 'yorker'?"
"That wasn't one of them."
"Yorker—corker—por——"
"Better make it a full pitch," I suggested. "Step out and make it a full pitch. Then there are such lots of rhymes."
"Thanks, I will. Well?"
"One. Do you play bridge?"
"No."
"Two. Do you play chess?"
"I can."
"Three. Do you play cricket? Not that it matters."
"Yes, I do sometimes. Good-bye. Send me a proof, will you? By the way, what paper is this for?"
"The Sportsman, if you'll play. On Friday week. Do."
"Anything, if you'll go."
"May I have that in writing?"
He handed me a rejection form.
"There you are. And I'll do anything you like on Friday."
I went back to Henry and told him the good news.
"I wonder if he'll mind being black," said Henry. "That's the chap that always gets mated so quickly."
"I expect they'll arrange it among themselves. Anyhow, we've done our best for them."
"It's an awful business, getting up a team," said Henry thoughtfully. "Well, we shall have two decent sets of bridge, anyway. But you ought to have arranged for twelve aside, and then we could have left out the chess professors and had three sets."
"It's all the fault of the rules. Some day somebody will realise that four doesn't go into eleven, and then we shall have a new rule."
"No, I don't think so," said Henry. "I don't fancy 'Wanderer' would allow it."
III. IN THE TRAIN
If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is ingratitude. Take the case of Carey. Carey, you may remember, professed himself unable to play either bridge or chess; and as we had a three-hour journey before us it did not look as though he were going to have much of a time. However, Henry and I, thinking entirely of Carey's personal comfort, went to the trouble of buying him a solitaire board, with glass balls complete. The balls were all in different colours.
I laid this before Carey as soon as we settled in the train.
"Whatever's that?"
"The new game," I said. "It's all the rage now, the man tells me. The Smart Set play it every Sunday. Young girls are inveigled into lonely country houses and robbed of incredible sums."
Carey laughed scornfully.
"So it is alleged," I added. "The inventor claims for it that in some respects it has advantages which even cricket cannot claim. As, for instance, it can be played in any weather: nay, even upon the sick bed."
"And how exactly is it played?"
"Thus. You take one away and all the rest jump over each other. At each jump you remove the jumpee, and the object is to clear the board. Hence the name—solitaire."
"I see. It seems a pretty rotten game."
That made me angry.
"All right. Then don't play. Have a game of marbles on the rack instead."
Meanwhile Henry was introducing Bolton and the editor to each other.
"Two such famous people," he began.
"Everyone," said Bolton, with a bow, "knows the editor of——"
"Oh yes, there's that. But I meant two such famous chess players. Bolton," he explained to the editor, "was twelfth man against Oxford some years ago. Something went wrong with his heart, or he'd have got in. On his day, and if the board was at all sticky, he used to turn a good deal from QB4."
"Do you really play?" asked Bolton eagerly. "I have a board here."
"Does he play! Do you mean to say you have never heard of the Trocadero Defence?"
"The Sicilian Defence——"
"The Trocadero Defence. It's where you palm the other man's queen when he's not looking. Most effective opening."
They both seemed keen on beginning, so Henry got out the cards for the rest of us.
I drew the younger journalist, against Henry and the senior stockbroker. Out of compliment to the journalist we arranged to play half-a-crown a hundred, that being about the price they pay him. I dealt, and a problem arose immediately. Here it is.
"A deals and leaves it to his partner B, who goes No Trumps. Y leads a small heart. B's hand consists of king and three small diamonds, king and one other heart, king and three small clubs, and three small spades. A plays the king from Dummy, and Z puts on the ace. What should A do?"
Answer. Ring communication-cord and ask guard to remove B.
"Very well," I said to Dummy. "One thing's pretty clear. You don't bowl to-day. Long-leg both ends is about your mark. Somewhere where there's plenty of throwing to do."
Later on, when I was Dummy, I strolled over to the chess players.
"What's the ground like?" said the editor, as he finessed a knight.
"Sporting. Distinctly sporting."
"Long grass all round, I suppose?"
"Oh, lord, no. The cows eat up all that."
"Do you mean to say the cows are allowed on the pitch?"
"Well, they don't put it that way, quite. The pitch is allowed on the cows' pasture land."
"I suppose if we make a hundred we shall do well?" asked somebody.
"If we make fifty we shall declare," I said. "By Jove, Bolton, that's a pretty smart move."
I may not know all the technical terms, but I do understand the idea of chess. The editor was a pawn up and three to play, and had just advanced his queen against Bolton's king, putting on a lot of check side as it seemed to me. Of course, I expected Bolton would have to retire his king; but not he! He laid a stymie with his bishop, and it was the editor's queen that had to withdraw. Yet Bolton was only spare man at Cambridge!
"I am not at all sure," I said, "that chess is not a finer game even than solitaire."
"It's a finer game than cricket," said Bolton, putting his bishop back in the slips again.
"No," said the editor. "Cricket is the finest game in the world. For why? I will tell you."
"Thanks to the glorious uncertainty of our national pastime," began the journalist, from his next Monday's article.
"No, thanks to the fact that it is a game in which one can produce the maximum of effect with the minimum of skill. Take my own case. I am not a batsman, I shall never make ten runs in an innings, yet how few people realise that! I go in first wicket down, wearing my M.C.C. cap. Having taken guard with the help of a bail, I adopt Palairet's stance at the wicket. Then the bowler delivers: either to the off, to leg, or straight. If it is to the off, I shoulder my bat and sneer at it. If it is to leg, I swing at it. I have a beautiful swing, which is alone worth the money. Probably I miss, but the bowler fully understands that it is because I have not yet got the pace of the wicket. Sooner or later he sends down a straight one, whereupon I proceed to glide it to leg. You will see the stroke in Beldam's book. Of course, I miss the ball, and am given out l.b.w. Then the look of astonishment that passes over my face, the bewildered inquiry of the wicket-keeper, and finally the shrug of good-humoured resignation as I walk from the crease! Nine times out of ten square-leg asks the umpire what county I play for. That is cricket."
"Quite so," I said, when he had finished. "There's only one flaw in it. That is that quite possibly you may have to go in last to-day. You'll have to think of some other plan. Also on this wicket the ball always goes well over your head. You couldn't be l.b.w. if you tried."
"Oh, but I do try."
"Yes. Well, you'll find it difficult."
The editor sighed.
"Then I shall have to retire hurt," he said.
Bolton chuckled to himself.
"One never retires hurt at chess," he said, as he huffed the editor's king. "Though once," he added proudly, "I sprained my hand, and had to make all my moves with the left one. Check."
The editor yawned, and looked out of the window.
"Are we nearly there?" he asked.
IV. IN THE FIELD
It is, I consider, the duty of a captain to consult the wishes of his team now and then, particularly when he is in command of such a heterogeneous collection of the professions as I was. I was watching a match at the Oval once, and at the end of an over Lees went up to Dalmeny, and had a few words with him. Probably, I thought, he is telling him a good story that he heard at lunch; or, maybe, he is asking for the latest gossip from the Lobby. My neighbour, however, held other views.
"There," he said, "there's ole Walter Lees asking to be took off."
"Surely not," I answered. "Dalmeny had a telegram just now, and Lees is asking if it's the three-thirty winner."
Lees then began to bowl again.
"There you are," I said triumphantly, but my neighbour wouldn't hear of it.
"Ole Lees asked to be took off, and ole Dalmeny" (I forget how he pronounced it, but I know it was one of the wrong ways)—"ole Dalmeny told him he'd have to stick on a bit."
Now that made a great impression on me, and I agreed with my friend that Dalmeny was in the wrong.
"When I am captaining a team," I said, "and one of the bowlers wants to come off, I am always ready to meet him half-way, more than half-way. Better than that, if I have resolved upon any course of action, I always let my team know beforehand; and I listen to their objections in a fair-minded spirit."
It was in accordance with this rule of mine that I said casually, as we were changing, "If we win the toss I shall put them in."
There was a chorus of protest.
"That's right, go it," I said. "Henry objects because, as a first-class cricketer, he is afraid of whatThe Sportsmanwill say if we lose. The editor naturally objects—it ruins his chance of being mistaken for a county player if he has to field first. Bolton objects because heavy exercise on a hot day spoils his lunch. Thompson objects because that's the way he earns his living at the Bar. His objection is merely technical, and is reserved as a point of law for the Court of Crown Cases Reserved. Markham is a socialist and objects to authority. Also he knows he's got to field long-leg both ends. Gerald——"
"But why?" said Henry.
"Because I want you all to see the wicket first. Then you can't say you weren't warned." Whereupon I went out and lost the toss.
As we walked into the field the editor told me a very funny story. I cannot repeat it here for various reasons. First, it has nothing to do with cricket; and, secondly, it is, I understand, coming out in his next number, and I should probably get into trouble. Also it is highly technical, and depends largely for its success upon adequate facial expression. But it amused me a good deal. Just as he got to the exciting part, Thompson came up.
"Do you mind if I go cover?" he asked.
"Do," I said abstractedly. "And what did the vicar say?"
The editor chuckled. "Well, you see, the vicar, knowing, of course, that——"
"Cover, I suppose," said Gerald, as he caught us up.
"What? Oh yes, please. The vicar did know, did he?"
"Oh, the vicarknew. That's really the whole point."
I shouted with laughter.
"Good, isn't it?" said the editor. "Well, then——"
"Have you got a cover?" came Markham's voice from behind us.
I turned round.
"Oh, Markham," I said, "I shall want you cover, if you don't mind. Sorry—I must tell these men where to go—well, then, you were saying——"
The editor continued the story. We were interrupted once or twice, but he finished it just as their first two men came out. I particularly liked that bit about the——
"Jove," I said suddenly, "we haven't got a wicket-keeper. That's always the way. Can you keep?" I asked the editor.
"Isn't there anyone else?"
"I'm afraid they're all fielding cover," I said, remembering suddenly. "But, look here, it's the chance of a lifetime for you. You can tell 'em all that——"
But he was trotting off to the pavilion.
"Can anybody lend me some gloves?" he asked. "They want me to keep wicket. Thing I've never done in my life. Of course I always field cover in the ordinary way. Thanks awfully. Sure you don't mind? Don't suppose I shall stop a ball though."
"Henry," I called, "you're starting that end. Arrange the field, will you? I'll go cover. You're sure to want one."
Their first batsman was an old weather-beaten villager called George. We knew his name was George because the second ball struck him in the stomach and his partner said, "Stay there, George," which seemed to be George's idea too. We learnt at lunch that once, in the eighties or so, he had gone in first with Lord Hawke (which put him on a level with that player), and that he had taken first ball (which put him just above the Yorkshireman).
There the story ended, so far as George was concerned; and indeed it was enough. Why seek to inquire if George took any other balls besides the first?
In our match, however, he took the second in the place that I mentioned, the third on the back of the neck, the fourth on the elbow, and the fifth in the original place; while the sixth, being off the wicket, was left there. Nearly every batsman had some pet stroke, and we soon saw that George's stroke was the leg-bye. His bat was the second line of defence, and was kept well in the block. If the ball escaped the earthwork in front, there was always a chance that it would be brought up by the bat. Once, indeed, a splendid ball of Henry's which came with his arm and missed George's legs, snicked the bat, and went straight into the wicket-keeper's hands. The editor, however, presented his compliments, and regretted that he was unable to accept the enclosed, which he accordingly returned with many thanks.
There was an unwritten law that George could not be l.b.w. I cannot say how it arose—possibly from a natural coyness on George's part about the exact significance of the "l." Henry, after appealing for the best part of three overs, gave it up, and bowled what he called "googlies" at him. This looked more hopeful, because a googly seems in no way to be restricted as to the number of its bounces, and at each bounce it had a chance of doing something. Unfortunately it never did George. Lunch came and the score was thirty-seven—George having compiled in two hours a masterly nineteen; eighteen off the person, but none the less directly due to him.
"We must think of a plan of campaign at lunch," said Henry. "It's hopeless to go on like this."
"Does George drink?" I asked anxiously. It seemed the only chance.
But George didn't. And the score was thirty seven for five, which is a good score for the wicket.
V. AT THE WICKETS
At lunch I said: "I have just had a wire from the Surrey committee to say that I may put myself on to bowl."
"That is good hearing," said Henry.
"Did they hear?" asked Gerald anxiously, looking over at the Chartleigh team.
"You may think you're very funny, but I'll bet you a—a—anything you like that I get George out."
"All right," said Gerald. "I'll play you for second wicket down, the loser to go in last."
"Done," I said, "and what about passing the salad now?"
After lunch the editor took me on one side and said: "I don't like it. I don't like it at all."
"Then why did you have so much?" I asked.
"I mean the wicket. It's dangerous. I am not thinking of myself so much as of——"
"As of the reading public?"
"Quite so."
"You think you—you would be missed in Fleet Street—just at first?"
"You are not putting the facts too strongly. I was about to suggest that I should be a 'did not bat.'"
"Oh! I see. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I was talking just now to the sister of their captain."
The editor looked interested.
"About the pad of the gardener?" he said.
"About you. She said—I give you her own words—'Who is the tall, handsome man keeping wicket in a M.C.C. cap?' So I said you were a well-known county player, as she would see when you went in to bat."
The editor shook my hand impressively.
"Thank you very much," he said. "I shall not fail her. What county did you say?"
"Part of Flint. You know the little bit that's got into the wrong county by mistake? That part. She had never heard of it; but I assured her it had a little bit of yellow all to itself on the map. Have you a pretty good eleven?"
The editor swore twice—once for me and once for Flint. Then we went out into the field.
My first ball did for George. I followed the tactics of William the First at the Battle of Hastings, 1066. You remember how he ordered his archers to shoot into the air, and how one arrow fell and pierced the eye of Harold, whereupon confusion and disaster arose. So with George. I hurled one perpendicularly into the sky, and it dropped (after a long time) straight upon the batsman. George followed it with a slightly contemptuous eye... all the way....
All the way. Of course, I was sorry. We were all much distressed. They told us afterwards he had never been hit in the eye before.... One gets new experiences.
George retired hurt. Not so much hurt as piqued, I fancy. He told the umpire it wasn't bowling. Possibly. Neither was it batting. It was just superior tactics.
The innings soon closed, and we had sixty-one to win, and, what seemed more likely, fifty-nine and various other numbers to lose. Sixty-one is a very unlucky number with me—oddly enough I have never yet made sixty-one; like W.G. Grace, who had never made ninety-three. My average this season is five, which is a respectable number. As Bolton pointed out—if we each got five to-day, and there were six extras, we should win. I suppose if one plays chess a good deal one thinks of these things.
Harold, I mean George, refused to field, so I nobly put myself in last and substituted for him. This was owing to an argument as to the exact wording of my bet with Gerald.
"You said you'd get him out," said Gerald.
"I mean 'out of the way,' 'out of the field,' 'out of——'"
"I meant 'out' according to the laws of cricket. There are nine ways. Which was yours, I should like to know?"
"Obstructing the ball."
"There you are."
I shifted my ground.
"I didn't say I'd get him out," I explained. "I said I'd get him. Those were my very words. 'I will get George.' Can you deny that I got him?"
"Even if you said that, which you didn't, the common construction that one puts upon the phrase is——"
"If you are going to use long words like that," I said, "I must refer you to my solicitor Bolton."
Whereupon Bolton took counsel's opinion, and reported that he could not advise me to proceed in the matter. So Gerald took second wicket, and I fielded.
However, one advantage of fielding was that I saw the editor's innings from start to finish at the closest quarters. He came in at the end of the first over, and took guard for "left hand round the wicket."
"Would you give it me?" he said to Bolton. "These country umpires.... Thanks. And what's that over the wicket? Thanks."
He marked two places with the bail.
"How about having it from here?" I suggested at mid-on. "It's quite a good place and we're in a straight line with the church."
The editor returned the bail, and held up his bat again.
"That 'one-leg' all right? Thanks."