Chapter Five.“Our Scratch Eleven.”This all happened a year or two before I went to sea, and so doesn’t come under the ordinary designation of a “yarn,” which, I take it, should only be about the doings of seafaring men and those who have to toil over the ocean for a living; still, as it concerns myself, I give it in pretty nearly the exact words I told it the other day to a party of youngsters who had just come in from cricketing and asked me for a story.I never played in such a match in my life before or since, I began; but, there, I had better commence at the right end, and then you’ll be able to judge for yourselves.Charley Bates, of course, was dead against it from the first.“I tell you it’s all nonsense,” he said, when we mooted the subject to him. “How on earth can we get up a decent eleven to play chaps like those, who have been touring it all over the country, and licking professionals even on their own ground? It’s impossible, and a downright absurdity. We can’t do it.”“But, Charley,” suggested Sidney Grant, a tall, fair-haired fellow, and our best bat—he could swipe away at leg balls; and as for straight drives, well, he’d send ’em over a bowler’s head, just out of his reach, and right to the boundary wall, at such a rate, like an express train going through the air, that they defied stopping. “But, Charley,” he suggested, “we’ve got some good ones left of our team, and I daresay we can pick up some fresh hands from amongst the visitors to make up a fair scratch lot.”“It would be a scratch lot,” sneered Charley—“a lot that would be scratched out with duck’s eggs, and make us the laughing-stock of the place.”“Oh, that’s all nonsense!” Sidney said, decisively.Besides being our best bat, he was the captain of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club, which, as it was far into the month of August, had got somewhat dispersed through some of the team having gone off on those cheap excursions to London, to the Continent, and elsewhere, that are rife at most of the seaside places on the south coast during the season. But now that the great travelling team of the “Piccadilly Inimitables” purposed paying a passing visit to our rural shades, it of course behoved the Little Peddlington Cricket Club to challenge the celebrated amateurs to a match, albeit we were so woefully weak from the absence of many of our best members, or else be for ever disgraced amongst the patrons of the noble game.It was this very point we were debating now, our captain having collected the remnants of the club together in solemn caucus, to deliberate on the situation and see what was to be done.“I don’t see why we shouldn’t challenge the Inimitables,” he went on. “The worst that can happen to us is to get licked; but we might make a good fight for it, and if vanquished we should not be covered with dishonour. There are five of us here of the first eleven to form a nucleus with: Charley Bates—whom I mention first, not by reason of his superior skill with the willow,” the captain slily put in, “as that is known to all of us, but on account of his being the oldest member of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club present, with the exception of myself—Jack Limpet, who is a very good all-round player if he didn’t brag quite so much,”—this was one at me—“Tom Atkins, John Hardy, and last, though by no means least, my worthy self. Thus we’ve five good men and true, whom we have tried already in many a fray, to rely on; and I daresay we can pick out two or three likely youngsters from the juniors, while some of those new fellows amongst the visitors that came down last week would lend us a hand. There were three of them especially that I noticed yesterday practising, whom I should certainly like to have in the eleven if I could get them to join us.”“They’d be glad enough if you’d ask them,” grumbled Charley Bates, who always seemed to prefer looking at the disagreeable side of things; “but I don’t think much of their play. And as for the juveniles, there isn’t one worth his salt.”“Yes, there is,” said John Hardy, who seldom spoke; but when he did open his mouth, generally did so to the purpose. “That young fellow James Black is first-class both at batting and bowling. I’ve watched him many a time. He ought to have been in the eleven long ago.”“Do you think so?” said Sidney inquiringly. “I’m afraid I’ve overlooked him. I’ll make a note of his name, even if we don’t have him with us to play against the Inimitables.”Without much further demur, Sidney Grant proceeded to settle that he and John Hardy should form themselves into a deputation and wait upon the committee of the visitors’ cricket club, requesting them to furnish the assistance of the three members whom our captain had specified, to the Little Peddlington Eleven, which would be also duly recruited from the ranks of its junior team, not forgetting young James Black, in order to enable them to challenge the Piccadilly Inimitables, and try to stop their triumphal progress round the south coast.Charley Bates objected, naturally, as might have been imagined from the position he took at first. He objected not only to the visitors being asked to join our scratch team and represent the Little Peddlingtonians, but also specially—just because John Hardy mentioned his name, and for no other earthly reason—to the fact of young Black’s being selected from the junior eleven. He was over-ruled, however, on both points, much to his chagrin, as he was in the habit generally of getting his own way by bullying the rest, and he left the meeting in the greatest disgust, saying that he wouldn’t play, and thus “make himself a party to the disgrace that was looming over the club,” in their defeat by the Inimitables, which he confidently expected.“He’s too fond of figuring in public to care to take a back seat when we are all in it, and bite off his nose to spite his face!” said Tom Atkins when he went away from us in his dudgeon, shaking off the dust from his cricketing shoes, so to speak, in testimony against us. “Master Charley will come round and join us when he sees we are in for the match, you bet!”And so he did, at the last moment. The other members having cordially supported the captain’s several propositions, they were carried unanimously by our quorum of four, and immediately acted upon. Young Black, with two other juniors, and three of the best men we could pick out from the visitors that were at Little Peddlington for the season that year—and there were some first-rate cricketers, too, amongst them—made up our scratch eleven, Charley Bates relenting when he found that we would have played without him. And a challenge having been sent to the Piccadilly Inimitables without delay, which they as promptly accepted, the match was fixed to come off, on our ground, of course, on the opening days of the ensuing week—provided, as the secretary of our opponents’ club, very offensively as we thought, added in a postscript to his communication, the contest was not settled on the first day’s play. But they reckoned without their host when they tackled the Little Peddlingtonians, as you will see.We fellows who formed the Little Peddlington Cricket Club were for the most part studying there under a noted tutor, who prepared us for the army, Woolwich, or India; but we admitted a few of the townspeople.A cricket match at such a retired spot opened a field of excitement to both residents and summer tourists alike. Even an ordinary contest, such as we sometimes indulged in with the Hammerton or Smithwick clubs, or the Bognor garrison, would have aroused considerable interest in the vicinity of Little Peddlington; but when it became known that we were going to play the celebrated Piccadilly Inimitables, who had licked Lancashire and Yorkshire, and almost every county eleven they had met in their cricketing tour from the north to the south of England, there was nothing else talked about from one end of our seaside town to the other, the news spreading to the adjacent hamlets, and villages beyond, until it reached the cathedral city twenty miles away.Under these circumstances it cannot be wondered at that when Monday, the opening day of the match—which turned out beautifully fine for a wonder, as it always rained on the very slightest provocation at Little Peddlington—arrived, there was such a crowd of carriages and drags, filled to their utmost capacity, as to astonish even the memory of that far-famed individual “the oldest inhabitant.” These were drawn up in a sort of semicircle around our cricket ground—a charmingly situated spot with a very wide area, and nicely sheltered by rows of waving elms from the hot August sun—and besides the “carriage folk,” as the rustics termed them, came on foot everybody in the neighbourhood, besides all Little Peddlington itself.The Piccadilly Inimitables arrived early in the morning, having stopped overnight at Brighton, where they had scored their last victory over the Sussex eleven, and which place was not so remote from Little Peddlington as you might suppose, consequently we were able to commence the match in good time, and as our club won the toss for first innings we buckled to at once for the fray, sending in John Hardy, who had the reputation with us of being a “sticker,” and the grumbling Charley Bates, to the wickets punctually at eleven o’clock.The bowling at the beginning was rather shady, the Inimitables not being accustomed to the ground, which our batsmen, of course, were perfectly familiar with; so runs got piled on in a way that raised our hopes pretty considerably, especially when Sidney Grant took Charley Bates’s place—that worthy having in his second over skied a ball that was immediately caught, sending him out for five runs, two singles and a three, or two more than he had totalled in his last match.It was a sight to see Sidney as he cut and drove the slow and fast bowlers of our opponents’ team for four almost every over; whilst John Hardy backed him up ably by remaining, as he was instructed, strictly on the defensive, and blocking every ball that came at all near his wicket Sidney was the run-getter; he had simply to run.We had scored thirty-eight for the loss of only one wicket, and the captain seemed to be well set and good to make the century—as he had done a month before in our match with the Smithwick Club—when a new bowler went on at the lower end of the ground, and “a change came over the spirit of our dream.”“I don’t like the way that chap walks up to the wicket,” said Tom Atkins to me. “I saw him taking Sidney’s measure when he was serving as long-stop, and if he doesn’t play carefully, he’ll bowl him out almost with his first ball.”“Not he,” said I sanguinely. “He seems too confident.”“Ah well! we’ll see,” replied Tom.That new bowler was something awful. He sent in the balls at such a pace that they came on the wicket like battering-rams, and their twist was so great that they would pitch about a mile off and appear to be wides, when all of a sudden they would spin in on a treacherous curve, right on to a fellow’s leg-stump. John Hardy stood them well enough, blocking away with a calm sense of duty, and never attempting to strike one. But poor Sidney lost his head in a very short time, and hitting out wildly at what he thought was a short ball, it rose right over the shoulder of his bat and carried off his bails in the neatest manner possible—two wickets for forty-one runs, as the captain had only managed to put on three runs since that fiend in human form had come on to bowl.Of course there was a wild shout of victory from the Inimitables when our best bat was disposed of, and corresponding woe in our camp, which was sympathisingly shared in by all the Little Peddlingtons around, and in the midst of the excitement I went to the wicket to fill the lamented vacancy.“Mind, Jack,” said Sidney, who did not allow the sense of defeat to overcome his duty, “and be certain to play those balls well back. It was all through my stepping out to them that caused my collapse. Only be cautious and take things coolly, and you and Prester John will tire him out.”“Oh, yes,” sneered Charley Bates, whose temper had not been improved by his getting out for five, when, in spite of his assurances of the superiority of our antagonists, he had looked forward to getting the highest score against them,—“Oh, yes. Tire him out! Why, the chap hasn’t got into the use of his arm yet. He’ll send Jack Limpet’s stumps flying presently. But I shall laugh when Tom Atkins faces his balls! Our comic man won’t have anything to joke about then, I’ll warrant.”He was a nasty fellow that Charley Bates! I don’t know anything more ungenerous than to try and dishearten a fellow just when he is going to the wicket, and knows what a responsibility he has resting on him! But, then, what can you expect from such a chap? I’m glad he got out for five. I wish he had been bowled for nix.With these pleasant thoughts in my mind I walked leisurely up the ground from where I had been standing by the scoring tent watching the game, and with an inward sinking at my heart faced the “Slogger,” as we had christened our opponents’ terrible bowler.For a couple of overs I got on very well. Acting on the captain’s advice I stopped in my own ground, playing all the Slogger’s balls carefully back, and by this means managed to score two good leg hits in the fourth over, that sent up six to my account, in addition to three singles, which I had put on by careful watchfulness at first.Just then, however, Prester John made a hit for a wonder—a straight drive for five; and fired with emulation I let out at the next ball I received. Throwing all caution and the captain’s commands to the winds, I did “let out with a vengeance,” as Tom Atkins said on my return to the tent, for I “let in” the ball, which, coming in with a swish, snapped my leg-stump in two, sending the pieces flying sky high in the air!Three wickets for fifty-seven runs, two for byes; so far, the scoring was not bad; but in a very short time Pelion was piled on Ossa in the history of our disasters. Prester John got run out through the absurd folly of Tom Atkins, who stopped actually in mid-wicket to laugh at some nonsense or other that had at that moment flashed across the vision of what he called his “mind;” and with his fall our chances sank rapidly to zero, wicket after wicket being taken without a run being scored, until the whole of us were out for a total still under sixty.It was maddening! But what annoyed John Hardy even more than that ass Tom Atkins having run him out was that the captain had never given young James Black any opportunity of showing his batting skill, as, being persuaded by Charley Bates, who pooh-poohed the youngster’s abilitiesin toto, he had only sent him in as “last-man,” and Black hadn’t, of course, the chance of playing a ball. Sidney, however, promised to right the matter in our second innings, should our opponents give us time to play one, and not occupy the wickets, as seemed very probable, for the two days over which the match could only extend: and with this promise Prester John and his protégé, young Jemmy Black, were fain to be content.The three recruits we had engaged from amongst the visitors to join our scratch eleven had, up to the present, done nothing to warrant our captain’s encomiums on their skill—at least in the batting line, which they had only essayed as yet; it remained to be proved whether they were worth anything in the field; if not, then our chances of receiving a hollow licking were uncommonly bright, as Charley Bates pointed out with his customary cheerful irony.Well, after luncheon, when we entertained them in the most hospitable manner, as if we loved them instead of feeling sentiments the reverse of amicable towards them, the Inimitables went in for their first innings; and the way they set to work scoring from the moment they commenced to handle the bat, prognosticated that Charley Bates’ evil surmise as to our defeat would be speedily realised.I think I have already hinted that I somewhat prided myself on my bowling, being celebrated amongst the members of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club for sending in slows of such a judicious pitch that they generally got the man caught out who attempted to drive them, while, should he contemptuously block them, they had such an underhand twist that they would invariably run into the wickets, although they mightn’t seem to have strength to go the distance? From this speciality of mine I was looked upon as a tower of strength in the bowling line to the club; and, consequently, I and one of our visitor recruits, Tomkins by name, were intrusted with the ball at the first start.Tomkins bowled swift with a pretty fair pitch, and I bowled slow, dead on to the wicket every time; but the two men of the Inimitables who began the batting on their side-men who have gained almost a European reputation in the handling of the willow, and I wouldn’t like to hurt their feelings by mentioning their names now—seemed to play with us as they liked, hitting the ball to every part of the ground, and scoring threes and fours, and even sixes, in the most demoralising manner possible. They hadn’t been in a quarter of an hour when they passed our miserable total, amidst the cheers of their own party—in which the fickle Little Peddlingtonians now joined, and the blue looks of our men—and it appeared as if their scoring would, like Tennyson’s brook, “go on for ever.”“We must put a stop to this,” said Sidney, when seventy went up on the scoring-board, “and change the bowling,” which he did, by going on himself at my end and putting one of the other visitors, who was also supposed to be a dab with the ball, in the place of Tomkins.For a time, this did a little good, as it stopped the rapidity of the scoring; but after an over or two, the batsmen, neither of whom had been yet displaced, began putting up the runs again, even quicker than they had done with us; and the hundred was passed almost within the hour from the time they started.“By George, Limpet,” said the captain, calling me to him out of the field, “you must go on again at the upper end, changing places with that chap. Try a full pitch, and we’ll catch that long-legged beggar out; he’s so confident now that he would hit at anything.”Going on again, as Sidney had directed, I tried a full-pitched ball after a short delivery or two, and the “long-legged beggar” skied it, amidst the breathless suspense of our team.Unfortunately, however, no one was there to catch it when it fell to the ground a long way beyond cover-point, and the Inimitables scored six for it—disgusting!“That Atkins deserves to be expelled the club!” said the captain in a rage. “He can’t put on a bit of steam when it’s necessary to use his legs, although he could run Prester John out for a ball that wasn’t worth moving for. Play!” And the game went on again.Giving my opponent another brace of short balls to take him off his guard, I watched my opportunity again and treated him again to a full one, which he skied, as before, to the same point.This time, however, he did not escape scatheless. Young Black, whom I had strangely missed from his position at long-stop since I commenced to bowl the over, stepped out from beneath the shadow of the trees, where he had concealed himself in the meantime, and amidst the ringing plaudits, not only of our lot but of the spectators as well—who turned round in our favour at the first breath of success—caught the ball with the utmostsangfroid, sending it a moment afterwards spinning in the air triumphantly, in the true cricketonian manner, as an acknowledgment of the feat and accompanying cheers.It wasn’t much to brag of, getting out the long-limbed one, as it was only one wicket for one hundred and seventeen runs; but when the second man went shortly after without increasing the score, our hopes began to rise. They were hopes based on sand, however. The two newcomers began making runs just like their predecessors, and completely mastered the bowling.Every member of the club had now been tried with the ball, besides the three visitors, who certainly bowled fairly well, but nothing hysterically brilliant. Even Charley Bates had a turn, although I don’t believe he had ever hit the wicket in his life; and on his surrendering the ball, after presenting our opponents with three wides and any number of byes, our captain was at his wits’ end. He didn’t know who he could set on to bowl.“Try young Black,” suggested Hardy at this juncture, when we were having a short interval of rest from our exhilarating game of leather-hunting, which had now been going on for two hours and more.“Young Black, indeed!” repeated Charley Bates with intense scorn.“Well,” said Prester John, “he can’t possibly do worse than you.”And the remark was so painfully true that even Charley could not but see the point of it, and he said no more.On being called, Jemmy Black came up with a broad grin on his face, which looked exactly like one of those public-house signs you sometimes see in country villages, of “The Rising Sun,” or “The Sun in Splendour.” He was otherwise a dapper little fellow, although scarcely five feet in height, and strongly built, his legs and arms being very muscular.He endeavoured to receive with proper gravity and dignity the ball from Sidney, who gave him a few words of appropriate advice, but he failed utterly in the attempt. That grin would not leave his face: it was as much a part of his physiognomy as his nose, I believe!Little chap as he was, however, his advent produced a change at once. His first three overs were maidens, balls that were dead on to the wicket, and so true and ticklish that the Inimitable champions did not dare to play them. In the next, bang went one of the two stickers’ leg-stump at young Black’s first ball; with the second he caught and bowled the fresh man who came in, before he scored at all—four wickets for a hundred and fifty runs, not one of which had been put on since he came on to bowl. Things began to look up, or, at all events, did not appear in so sombre a light as they had done previously.“Bravo, Black!” resounded from every part of the field; but the little fellow took no notice of the applause, beyond grinning more widely than ever, “his mouth stretching from ear to ear,” as Charley Bates said, green with envy and jealousy of the other’s performance.The new bowler seemed to demoralise the batsmen even as they had previously demoralised us, for I had a bit of luck a little further on, taking one wicket by a low-pitched ball, and getting another man out with a catch; and then Black, as if he had been only playing with the Inimitables hitherto, braced himself up to the struggle, and began laying the stumps low right and left.It was a wonder that such a small chap could send in the balls at the terrific speed he did, balls that set leg-guards and pads at defiance, and splintered one of the batsmen’s spring-handled bats as if it had been match wood; but he did it.His last over in that first innings of the Inimitables, however, was the crowning point in his victorious career. With four consecutive balls he took the four last wickets of our opponents, and sent them off the ground without putting up a run—the whole eleven being out for one hundred and fifty-six runs—or not quite the century beyond us; and the principal feature of Black’s triumph was, that from the moment he handled the leather, the Inimitables only scored six to the good, but one run of which was off his bowling.I should like you to beat that analysis, if you can!With the disposal of our antagonists so easily at the end, we began our second innings with more sanguine expectations than could have been imagined from our previous prostration.“Black had better go in as first man along with you, Hardy, and see what he can do,” our captain said.The two accordingly went to the wickets at the beginning of the innings; and there they remained without giving a single chance until the conclusion of the day’s play, when the stumps were drawn at seven o’clock in the evening.Young Black had scored by that time no less than eighty off his own bat, and Hardy forty-one, after being in to their own cheek exactly as long as the Inimitables’ whole innings lasted. It was glorious, one hundred and eighteen without the loss of a wicket, and the bowling and fielding must have been good, as there were only seven extras all that long while our men had been in. Why, that placed us thirty-one runs to the good at the close of the first day’s play. Who would have thought it?The next morning play began as punctually as on the first day, and the crowd to witness the match was even greater than before, many coming now who had stayed away previously, expecting our wholesale defeat in one innings; and “young Ebony,” as Black was called affectionately, and Prester John resumed their places at the wickets amidst the tremendous cheering from the whole of the hamlet and twenty miles round.The bowlers of the Inimitables were on their metal now if they never were; but they bowled, and changed their bowling, in vain, for young Jemmy Black continued his brilliant hitting without any cessation, while Prester John remained on the defensive, except some very safe ball tempted him, until our score turned the two hundred in our second innings.Prester John here retired by reason of his placing a ball in short-slip’s hands; but on our captain taking his place and facing Black, the run-getting went steadily on until we were considerably a hundred over our antagonists. Young Black had not given a chance, save one close shave of a run out, when he got clean bowled for one hundred and fifty-one. Fancy that; and off such first-class bowling, too!It was as much as Hardy and I could do to prevent him being torn in pieces by the excited spectators, who rushed inen massewhen he abandoned the wicket he had defended so well, his face all the time expanding into one huge grin, which appeared to convert it into all mouth and nothing else.Sidney and I, and one or two others, scored well, although nothing like what our two champion stickers had done; and the whole of our second innings terminated for two hundred and eighty-eight runs, thus leaving the Inimitables no less than a hundred and ninety-one to get to tie us, and one more to win. I fancy that was something like a feather in the cap of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club, although it was all owing to young Jemmy Black, whose bowling, when the Inimitables went in to make their final effort, was on a par with his magnificent batting. We had finished our second innings just before lunch time; so immediately after that meal the great travelling team, who were going to do such wonders when they came to annihilate the Little Peddlingtonians—I can’t help crowing a little now it is all over—went to the wickets to finish the match, or spin it out, if they could, so that it might end in a draw.Young Black was all there, however, and so was I, too, for, whether by his example or what, I know not, I never bowled so well before or since in my life. Really, between us two, and the efficient assistance of our fieldsmen, who seemed also spurred up to extra exertions, even Charley Bates and Tom Atkins distinguishing themselves for their quickness of eye and fleetness of foot, the Piccadilly Inimitables got all put out long before time was called, for the inglorious total of our own first innings—fifty-nine. Hurrah!We had conquered by a hundred and thirty-two runs, and licked the most celebrated amateur club in England. It would be a vain task to try and recount our delighted surprise, so I’ll leave it alone. Thenceforward the rest of the chronicles of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club are they not written in gold? At all events, I know this, that we never forgot what happened to us in that ever-memorable match, with only “Our Scratch Eleven.”
This all happened a year or two before I went to sea, and so doesn’t come under the ordinary designation of a “yarn,” which, I take it, should only be about the doings of seafaring men and those who have to toil over the ocean for a living; still, as it concerns myself, I give it in pretty nearly the exact words I told it the other day to a party of youngsters who had just come in from cricketing and asked me for a story.
I never played in such a match in my life before or since, I began; but, there, I had better commence at the right end, and then you’ll be able to judge for yourselves.
Charley Bates, of course, was dead against it from the first.
“I tell you it’s all nonsense,” he said, when we mooted the subject to him. “How on earth can we get up a decent eleven to play chaps like those, who have been touring it all over the country, and licking professionals even on their own ground? It’s impossible, and a downright absurdity. We can’t do it.”
“But, Charley,” suggested Sidney Grant, a tall, fair-haired fellow, and our best bat—he could swipe away at leg balls; and as for straight drives, well, he’d send ’em over a bowler’s head, just out of his reach, and right to the boundary wall, at such a rate, like an express train going through the air, that they defied stopping. “But, Charley,” he suggested, “we’ve got some good ones left of our team, and I daresay we can pick up some fresh hands from amongst the visitors to make up a fair scratch lot.”
“It would be a scratch lot,” sneered Charley—“a lot that would be scratched out with duck’s eggs, and make us the laughing-stock of the place.”
“Oh, that’s all nonsense!” Sidney said, decisively.
Besides being our best bat, he was the captain of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club, which, as it was far into the month of August, had got somewhat dispersed through some of the team having gone off on those cheap excursions to London, to the Continent, and elsewhere, that are rife at most of the seaside places on the south coast during the season. But now that the great travelling team of the “Piccadilly Inimitables” purposed paying a passing visit to our rural shades, it of course behoved the Little Peddlington Cricket Club to challenge the celebrated amateurs to a match, albeit we were so woefully weak from the absence of many of our best members, or else be for ever disgraced amongst the patrons of the noble game.
It was this very point we were debating now, our captain having collected the remnants of the club together in solemn caucus, to deliberate on the situation and see what was to be done.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t challenge the Inimitables,” he went on. “The worst that can happen to us is to get licked; but we might make a good fight for it, and if vanquished we should not be covered with dishonour. There are five of us here of the first eleven to form a nucleus with: Charley Bates—whom I mention first, not by reason of his superior skill with the willow,” the captain slily put in, “as that is known to all of us, but on account of his being the oldest member of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club present, with the exception of myself—Jack Limpet, who is a very good all-round player if he didn’t brag quite so much,”—this was one at me—“Tom Atkins, John Hardy, and last, though by no means least, my worthy self. Thus we’ve five good men and true, whom we have tried already in many a fray, to rely on; and I daresay we can pick out two or three likely youngsters from the juniors, while some of those new fellows amongst the visitors that came down last week would lend us a hand. There were three of them especially that I noticed yesterday practising, whom I should certainly like to have in the eleven if I could get them to join us.”
“They’d be glad enough if you’d ask them,” grumbled Charley Bates, who always seemed to prefer looking at the disagreeable side of things; “but I don’t think much of their play. And as for the juveniles, there isn’t one worth his salt.”
“Yes, there is,” said John Hardy, who seldom spoke; but when he did open his mouth, generally did so to the purpose. “That young fellow James Black is first-class both at batting and bowling. I’ve watched him many a time. He ought to have been in the eleven long ago.”
“Do you think so?” said Sidney inquiringly. “I’m afraid I’ve overlooked him. I’ll make a note of his name, even if we don’t have him with us to play against the Inimitables.”
Without much further demur, Sidney Grant proceeded to settle that he and John Hardy should form themselves into a deputation and wait upon the committee of the visitors’ cricket club, requesting them to furnish the assistance of the three members whom our captain had specified, to the Little Peddlington Eleven, which would be also duly recruited from the ranks of its junior team, not forgetting young James Black, in order to enable them to challenge the Piccadilly Inimitables, and try to stop their triumphal progress round the south coast.
Charley Bates objected, naturally, as might have been imagined from the position he took at first. He objected not only to the visitors being asked to join our scratch team and represent the Little Peddlingtonians, but also specially—just because John Hardy mentioned his name, and for no other earthly reason—to the fact of young Black’s being selected from the junior eleven. He was over-ruled, however, on both points, much to his chagrin, as he was in the habit generally of getting his own way by bullying the rest, and he left the meeting in the greatest disgust, saying that he wouldn’t play, and thus “make himself a party to the disgrace that was looming over the club,” in their defeat by the Inimitables, which he confidently expected.
“He’s too fond of figuring in public to care to take a back seat when we are all in it, and bite off his nose to spite his face!” said Tom Atkins when he went away from us in his dudgeon, shaking off the dust from his cricketing shoes, so to speak, in testimony against us. “Master Charley will come round and join us when he sees we are in for the match, you bet!”
And so he did, at the last moment. The other members having cordially supported the captain’s several propositions, they were carried unanimously by our quorum of four, and immediately acted upon. Young Black, with two other juniors, and three of the best men we could pick out from the visitors that were at Little Peddlington for the season that year—and there were some first-rate cricketers, too, amongst them—made up our scratch eleven, Charley Bates relenting when he found that we would have played without him. And a challenge having been sent to the Piccadilly Inimitables without delay, which they as promptly accepted, the match was fixed to come off, on our ground, of course, on the opening days of the ensuing week—provided, as the secretary of our opponents’ club, very offensively as we thought, added in a postscript to his communication, the contest was not settled on the first day’s play. But they reckoned without their host when they tackled the Little Peddlingtonians, as you will see.
We fellows who formed the Little Peddlington Cricket Club were for the most part studying there under a noted tutor, who prepared us for the army, Woolwich, or India; but we admitted a few of the townspeople.
A cricket match at such a retired spot opened a field of excitement to both residents and summer tourists alike. Even an ordinary contest, such as we sometimes indulged in with the Hammerton or Smithwick clubs, or the Bognor garrison, would have aroused considerable interest in the vicinity of Little Peddlington; but when it became known that we were going to play the celebrated Piccadilly Inimitables, who had licked Lancashire and Yorkshire, and almost every county eleven they had met in their cricketing tour from the north to the south of England, there was nothing else talked about from one end of our seaside town to the other, the news spreading to the adjacent hamlets, and villages beyond, until it reached the cathedral city twenty miles away.
Under these circumstances it cannot be wondered at that when Monday, the opening day of the match—which turned out beautifully fine for a wonder, as it always rained on the very slightest provocation at Little Peddlington—arrived, there was such a crowd of carriages and drags, filled to their utmost capacity, as to astonish even the memory of that far-famed individual “the oldest inhabitant.” These were drawn up in a sort of semicircle around our cricket ground—a charmingly situated spot with a very wide area, and nicely sheltered by rows of waving elms from the hot August sun—and besides the “carriage folk,” as the rustics termed them, came on foot everybody in the neighbourhood, besides all Little Peddlington itself.
The Piccadilly Inimitables arrived early in the morning, having stopped overnight at Brighton, where they had scored their last victory over the Sussex eleven, and which place was not so remote from Little Peddlington as you might suppose, consequently we were able to commence the match in good time, and as our club won the toss for first innings we buckled to at once for the fray, sending in John Hardy, who had the reputation with us of being a “sticker,” and the grumbling Charley Bates, to the wickets punctually at eleven o’clock.
The bowling at the beginning was rather shady, the Inimitables not being accustomed to the ground, which our batsmen, of course, were perfectly familiar with; so runs got piled on in a way that raised our hopes pretty considerably, especially when Sidney Grant took Charley Bates’s place—that worthy having in his second over skied a ball that was immediately caught, sending him out for five runs, two singles and a three, or two more than he had totalled in his last match.
It was a sight to see Sidney as he cut and drove the slow and fast bowlers of our opponents’ team for four almost every over; whilst John Hardy backed him up ably by remaining, as he was instructed, strictly on the defensive, and blocking every ball that came at all near his wicket Sidney was the run-getter; he had simply to run.
We had scored thirty-eight for the loss of only one wicket, and the captain seemed to be well set and good to make the century—as he had done a month before in our match with the Smithwick Club—when a new bowler went on at the lower end of the ground, and “a change came over the spirit of our dream.”
“I don’t like the way that chap walks up to the wicket,” said Tom Atkins to me. “I saw him taking Sidney’s measure when he was serving as long-stop, and if he doesn’t play carefully, he’ll bowl him out almost with his first ball.”
“Not he,” said I sanguinely. “He seems too confident.”
“Ah well! we’ll see,” replied Tom.
That new bowler was something awful. He sent in the balls at such a pace that they came on the wicket like battering-rams, and their twist was so great that they would pitch about a mile off and appear to be wides, when all of a sudden they would spin in on a treacherous curve, right on to a fellow’s leg-stump. John Hardy stood them well enough, blocking away with a calm sense of duty, and never attempting to strike one. But poor Sidney lost his head in a very short time, and hitting out wildly at what he thought was a short ball, it rose right over the shoulder of his bat and carried off his bails in the neatest manner possible—two wickets for forty-one runs, as the captain had only managed to put on three runs since that fiend in human form had come on to bowl.
Of course there was a wild shout of victory from the Inimitables when our best bat was disposed of, and corresponding woe in our camp, which was sympathisingly shared in by all the Little Peddlingtons around, and in the midst of the excitement I went to the wicket to fill the lamented vacancy.
“Mind, Jack,” said Sidney, who did not allow the sense of defeat to overcome his duty, “and be certain to play those balls well back. It was all through my stepping out to them that caused my collapse. Only be cautious and take things coolly, and you and Prester John will tire him out.”
“Oh, yes,” sneered Charley Bates, whose temper had not been improved by his getting out for five, when, in spite of his assurances of the superiority of our antagonists, he had looked forward to getting the highest score against them,—“Oh, yes. Tire him out! Why, the chap hasn’t got into the use of his arm yet. He’ll send Jack Limpet’s stumps flying presently. But I shall laugh when Tom Atkins faces his balls! Our comic man won’t have anything to joke about then, I’ll warrant.”
He was a nasty fellow that Charley Bates! I don’t know anything more ungenerous than to try and dishearten a fellow just when he is going to the wicket, and knows what a responsibility he has resting on him! But, then, what can you expect from such a chap? I’m glad he got out for five. I wish he had been bowled for nix.
With these pleasant thoughts in my mind I walked leisurely up the ground from where I had been standing by the scoring tent watching the game, and with an inward sinking at my heart faced the “Slogger,” as we had christened our opponents’ terrible bowler.
For a couple of overs I got on very well. Acting on the captain’s advice I stopped in my own ground, playing all the Slogger’s balls carefully back, and by this means managed to score two good leg hits in the fourth over, that sent up six to my account, in addition to three singles, which I had put on by careful watchfulness at first.
Just then, however, Prester John made a hit for a wonder—a straight drive for five; and fired with emulation I let out at the next ball I received. Throwing all caution and the captain’s commands to the winds, I did “let out with a vengeance,” as Tom Atkins said on my return to the tent, for I “let in” the ball, which, coming in with a swish, snapped my leg-stump in two, sending the pieces flying sky high in the air!
Three wickets for fifty-seven runs, two for byes; so far, the scoring was not bad; but in a very short time Pelion was piled on Ossa in the history of our disasters. Prester John got run out through the absurd folly of Tom Atkins, who stopped actually in mid-wicket to laugh at some nonsense or other that had at that moment flashed across the vision of what he called his “mind;” and with his fall our chances sank rapidly to zero, wicket after wicket being taken without a run being scored, until the whole of us were out for a total still under sixty.
It was maddening! But what annoyed John Hardy even more than that ass Tom Atkins having run him out was that the captain had never given young James Black any opportunity of showing his batting skill, as, being persuaded by Charley Bates, who pooh-poohed the youngster’s abilitiesin toto, he had only sent him in as “last-man,” and Black hadn’t, of course, the chance of playing a ball. Sidney, however, promised to right the matter in our second innings, should our opponents give us time to play one, and not occupy the wickets, as seemed very probable, for the two days over which the match could only extend: and with this promise Prester John and his protégé, young Jemmy Black, were fain to be content.
The three recruits we had engaged from amongst the visitors to join our scratch eleven had, up to the present, done nothing to warrant our captain’s encomiums on their skill—at least in the batting line, which they had only essayed as yet; it remained to be proved whether they were worth anything in the field; if not, then our chances of receiving a hollow licking were uncommonly bright, as Charley Bates pointed out with his customary cheerful irony.
Well, after luncheon, when we entertained them in the most hospitable manner, as if we loved them instead of feeling sentiments the reverse of amicable towards them, the Inimitables went in for their first innings; and the way they set to work scoring from the moment they commenced to handle the bat, prognosticated that Charley Bates’ evil surmise as to our defeat would be speedily realised.
I think I have already hinted that I somewhat prided myself on my bowling, being celebrated amongst the members of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club for sending in slows of such a judicious pitch that they generally got the man caught out who attempted to drive them, while, should he contemptuously block them, they had such an underhand twist that they would invariably run into the wickets, although they mightn’t seem to have strength to go the distance? From this speciality of mine I was looked upon as a tower of strength in the bowling line to the club; and, consequently, I and one of our visitor recruits, Tomkins by name, were intrusted with the ball at the first start.
Tomkins bowled swift with a pretty fair pitch, and I bowled slow, dead on to the wicket every time; but the two men of the Inimitables who began the batting on their side-men who have gained almost a European reputation in the handling of the willow, and I wouldn’t like to hurt their feelings by mentioning their names now—seemed to play with us as they liked, hitting the ball to every part of the ground, and scoring threes and fours, and even sixes, in the most demoralising manner possible. They hadn’t been in a quarter of an hour when they passed our miserable total, amidst the cheers of their own party—in which the fickle Little Peddlingtonians now joined, and the blue looks of our men—and it appeared as if their scoring would, like Tennyson’s brook, “go on for ever.”
“We must put a stop to this,” said Sidney, when seventy went up on the scoring-board, “and change the bowling,” which he did, by going on himself at my end and putting one of the other visitors, who was also supposed to be a dab with the ball, in the place of Tomkins.
For a time, this did a little good, as it stopped the rapidity of the scoring; but after an over or two, the batsmen, neither of whom had been yet displaced, began putting up the runs again, even quicker than they had done with us; and the hundred was passed almost within the hour from the time they started.
“By George, Limpet,” said the captain, calling me to him out of the field, “you must go on again at the upper end, changing places with that chap. Try a full pitch, and we’ll catch that long-legged beggar out; he’s so confident now that he would hit at anything.”
Going on again, as Sidney had directed, I tried a full-pitched ball after a short delivery or two, and the “long-legged beggar” skied it, amidst the breathless suspense of our team.
Unfortunately, however, no one was there to catch it when it fell to the ground a long way beyond cover-point, and the Inimitables scored six for it—disgusting!
“That Atkins deserves to be expelled the club!” said the captain in a rage. “He can’t put on a bit of steam when it’s necessary to use his legs, although he could run Prester John out for a ball that wasn’t worth moving for. Play!” And the game went on again.
Giving my opponent another brace of short balls to take him off his guard, I watched my opportunity again and treated him again to a full one, which he skied, as before, to the same point.
This time, however, he did not escape scatheless. Young Black, whom I had strangely missed from his position at long-stop since I commenced to bowl the over, stepped out from beneath the shadow of the trees, where he had concealed himself in the meantime, and amidst the ringing plaudits, not only of our lot but of the spectators as well—who turned round in our favour at the first breath of success—caught the ball with the utmostsangfroid, sending it a moment afterwards spinning in the air triumphantly, in the true cricketonian manner, as an acknowledgment of the feat and accompanying cheers.
It wasn’t much to brag of, getting out the long-limbed one, as it was only one wicket for one hundred and seventeen runs; but when the second man went shortly after without increasing the score, our hopes began to rise. They were hopes based on sand, however. The two newcomers began making runs just like their predecessors, and completely mastered the bowling.
Every member of the club had now been tried with the ball, besides the three visitors, who certainly bowled fairly well, but nothing hysterically brilliant. Even Charley Bates had a turn, although I don’t believe he had ever hit the wicket in his life; and on his surrendering the ball, after presenting our opponents with three wides and any number of byes, our captain was at his wits’ end. He didn’t know who he could set on to bowl.
“Try young Black,” suggested Hardy at this juncture, when we were having a short interval of rest from our exhilarating game of leather-hunting, which had now been going on for two hours and more.
“Young Black, indeed!” repeated Charley Bates with intense scorn.
“Well,” said Prester John, “he can’t possibly do worse than you.”
And the remark was so painfully true that even Charley could not but see the point of it, and he said no more.
On being called, Jemmy Black came up with a broad grin on his face, which looked exactly like one of those public-house signs you sometimes see in country villages, of “The Rising Sun,” or “The Sun in Splendour.” He was otherwise a dapper little fellow, although scarcely five feet in height, and strongly built, his legs and arms being very muscular.
He endeavoured to receive with proper gravity and dignity the ball from Sidney, who gave him a few words of appropriate advice, but he failed utterly in the attempt. That grin would not leave his face: it was as much a part of his physiognomy as his nose, I believe!
Little chap as he was, however, his advent produced a change at once. His first three overs were maidens, balls that were dead on to the wicket, and so true and ticklish that the Inimitable champions did not dare to play them. In the next, bang went one of the two stickers’ leg-stump at young Black’s first ball; with the second he caught and bowled the fresh man who came in, before he scored at all—four wickets for a hundred and fifty runs, not one of which had been put on since he came on to bowl. Things began to look up, or, at all events, did not appear in so sombre a light as they had done previously.
“Bravo, Black!” resounded from every part of the field; but the little fellow took no notice of the applause, beyond grinning more widely than ever, “his mouth stretching from ear to ear,” as Charley Bates said, green with envy and jealousy of the other’s performance.
The new bowler seemed to demoralise the batsmen even as they had previously demoralised us, for I had a bit of luck a little further on, taking one wicket by a low-pitched ball, and getting another man out with a catch; and then Black, as if he had been only playing with the Inimitables hitherto, braced himself up to the struggle, and began laying the stumps low right and left.
It was a wonder that such a small chap could send in the balls at the terrific speed he did, balls that set leg-guards and pads at defiance, and splintered one of the batsmen’s spring-handled bats as if it had been match wood; but he did it.
His last over in that first innings of the Inimitables, however, was the crowning point in his victorious career. With four consecutive balls he took the four last wickets of our opponents, and sent them off the ground without putting up a run—the whole eleven being out for one hundred and fifty-six runs—or not quite the century beyond us; and the principal feature of Black’s triumph was, that from the moment he handled the leather, the Inimitables only scored six to the good, but one run of which was off his bowling.
I should like you to beat that analysis, if you can!
With the disposal of our antagonists so easily at the end, we began our second innings with more sanguine expectations than could have been imagined from our previous prostration.
“Black had better go in as first man along with you, Hardy, and see what he can do,” our captain said.
The two accordingly went to the wickets at the beginning of the innings; and there they remained without giving a single chance until the conclusion of the day’s play, when the stumps were drawn at seven o’clock in the evening.
Young Black had scored by that time no less than eighty off his own bat, and Hardy forty-one, after being in to their own cheek exactly as long as the Inimitables’ whole innings lasted. It was glorious, one hundred and eighteen without the loss of a wicket, and the bowling and fielding must have been good, as there were only seven extras all that long while our men had been in. Why, that placed us thirty-one runs to the good at the close of the first day’s play. Who would have thought it?
The next morning play began as punctually as on the first day, and the crowd to witness the match was even greater than before, many coming now who had stayed away previously, expecting our wholesale defeat in one innings; and “young Ebony,” as Black was called affectionately, and Prester John resumed their places at the wickets amidst the tremendous cheering from the whole of the hamlet and twenty miles round.
The bowlers of the Inimitables were on their metal now if they never were; but they bowled, and changed their bowling, in vain, for young Jemmy Black continued his brilliant hitting without any cessation, while Prester John remained on the defensive, except some very safe ball tempted him, until our score turned the two hundred in our second innings.
Prester John here retired by reason of his placing a ball in short-slip’s hands; but on our captain taking his place and facing Black, the run-getting went steadily on until we were considerably a hundred over our antagonists. Young Black had not given a chance, save one close shave of a run out, when he got clean bowled for one hundred and fifty-one. Fancy that; and off such first-class bowling, too!
It was as much as Hardy and I could do to prevent him being torn in pieces by the excited spectators, who rushed inen massewhen he abandoned the wicket he had defended so well, his face all the time expanding into one huge grin, which appeared to convert it into all mouth and nothing else.
Sidney and I, and one or two others, scored well, although nothing like what our two champion stickers had done; and the whole of our second innings terminated for two hundred and eighty-eight runs, thus leaving the Inimitables no less than a hundred and ninety-one to get to tie us, and one more to win. I fancy that was something like a feather in the cap of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club, although it was all owing to young Jemmy Black, whose bowling, when the Inimitables went in to make their final effort, was on a par with his magnificent batting. We had finished our second innings just before lunch time; so immediately after that meal the great travelling team, who were going to do such wonders when they came to annihilate the Little Peddlingtonians—I can’t help crowing a little now it is all over—went to the wickets to finish the match, or spin it out, if they could, so that it might end in a draw.
Young Black was all there, however, and so was I, too, for, whether by his example or what, I know not, I never bowled so well before or since in my life. Really, between us two, and the efficient assistance of our fieldsmen, who seemed also spurred up to extra exertions, even Charley Bates and Tom Atkins distinguishing themselves for their quickness of eye and fleetness of foot, the Piccadilly Inimitables got all put out long before time was called, for the inglorious total of our own first innings—fifty-nine. Hurrah!
We had conquered by a hundred and thirty-two runs, and licked the most celebrated amateur club in England. It would be a vain task to try and recount our delighted surprise, so I’ll leave it alone. Thenceforward the rest of the chronicles of the Little Peddlington Cricket Club are they not written in gold? At all events, I know this, that we never forgot what happened to us in that ever-memorable match, with only “Our Scratch Eleven.”
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