Mike by P. G. Wodehouse (readnow .txt) 📕

not have looked anything but a cricketer if he had turned out in a tweed suit and hobnail boots.  Cricketer was written all over him—­in his walk, in the way he took guard, in his stand at the wickets.  Adair started to bowl with the feeling that this was somebody who had more than a little knowledge of how to deal with good bowling and punish bad.

Mike started cautiously.  He was more than usually anxious to make runs to-day, and he meant to take no risks till he could afford to do so.  He had seen Adair bowl at the nets, and he knew that he was good.

The first over was a maiden, six dangerous balls beautifully played.  The fieldsmen changed over.

The general interest had now settled on the match between Outwood’s and Downing’s.  The fact in Mike’s case had gone round the field, and, as several of the other games had not yet begun, quite a large crowd had collected near the pavilion to watch.  Mike’s masterly treatment of the opening over had impressed the spectators, and there was a popular desire to see how he would deal with Mr. Downing’s slows.  It was generally anticipated that he would do something special with them.

Off the first ball of the master’s over a leg-bye was run.

Mike took guard.

Mr. Downing was a bowler with a style of his own.  He took two short steps, two long steps, gave a jump, took three more short steps, and ended with a combination of step and jump, during which the ball emerged from behind his back and started on its slow career to the wicket.  The whole business had some of the dignity of the old-fashioned minuet, subtly blended with the careless vigour of a cake-walk.  The ball, when delivered, was billed to break from leg, but the programme was subject to alterations.

If the spectators had expected Mike to begin any firework effects with the first ball, they were disappointed.  He played the over through with a grace worthy of his brother Joe.  The last ball he turned to leg for a single.

His treatment of Adair’s next over was freer.  He had got a sight of the ball now.  Half-way through the over a beautiful square cut forced a passage through the crowd by the pavilion, and dashed up against the rails.  He drove the sixth ball past cover for three.

The crowd was now reluctantly dispersing to its own games, but it stopped as Mr. Downing started his minuet-cake-walk, in the hope that it might see something more sensational.

This time the hope was fulfilled.

The ball was well up, slow, and off the wicket on the on-side.  Perhaps if it had been allowed to pitch, it might have broken in and become quite dangerous.  Mike went out at it, and hit it a couple of feet from the ground.  The ball dropped with a thud and a spurting of dust in the road that ran along one side of the cricket field.

It was returned on the instalment system by helpers from other games, and the bowler began his manoeuvres again.  A half-volley this time.  Mike slammed it back, and mid-on, whose heart was obviously not in the thing, failed to stop it.

“Get to them, Jenkins,” said Mr. Downing irritably, as the ball came back from the boundary.  “Get to them.”

“Sir, please, sir——­”

“Don’t talk in the field, Jenkins.”

Having had a full-pitch hit for six and a half-volley for four, there was a strong probability that Mr. Downing would pitch his next ball short.

The expected happened.  The third ball was a slow long-hop, and hit the road at about the same spot where the first had landed.  A howl of untuneful applause rose from the watchers in the pavilion, and Mike, with the feeling that this sort of bowling was too good to be true, waited in position for number four.

There are moments when a sort of panic seizes a bowler.  This happened now with Mr. Downing.  He suddenly abandoned science and ran amok.  His run lost its stateliness and increased its vigour.  He charged up to the wicket as a wounded buffalo sometimes charges a gun.  His whole idea now was to bowl fast.

When a slow bowler starts to bowl fast, it is usually as well to be batting, if you can manage it.

By the time the over was finished, Mike’s score had been increased by sixteen, and the total of his side, in addition, by three wides.

And a shrill small voice, from the neighbourhood of the pavilion, uttered with painful distinctness the words, “Take him off!”

That was how the most sensational day’s cricket began that Sedleigh had known.

A description of the details of the morning’s play would be monotonous.  It is enough to say that they ran on much the same lines as the third and fourth overs of the match.  Mr. Downing bowled one more over, off which Mike helped himself to sixteen runs, and then retired moodily to cover-point, where, in Adair’s fifth over, he missed Barnes—­the first occasion since the game began on which that mild batsman had attempted to score more than a single.  Scared by this escape, Outwood’s captain shrank back into his shell, sat on the splice like a limpet, and, offering no more chances, was not out at lunch time with a score of eleven.

Mike had then made a hundred and three.

As Mike was taking off his pads in the pavilion, Adair came up.

“Why did you say you didn’t play cricket?” he asked abruptly.

When one has been bowling the whole morning, and bowling well, without the slightest success, one is inclined to be abrupt.

Mike finished unfastening an obstinate strap.  Then he looked up.

“I didn’t say anything of the kind.  I said I wasn’t going to play here.  There’s a difference.  As a matter of fact, I was in the Wrykyn team before I came here.  Three years.”

Adair was silent for a moment.

“Will you play for us against the Old Sedleighans to-morrow?” he said at length.

Mike tossed his pads into his bag and got up.

“No, thanks.”

There was a silence.

“Above it, I suppose?”

“Not a bit.  Not up to it.  I shall want a lot of coaching at that end net of yours before I’m fit to play for Sedleigh.”

There was another pause.

“Then you won’t play?” asked Adair.

“I’m not keeping you, am I?” said Mike, politely.

It was remarkable what a number of members of Outwood’s house appeared to cherish a personal grudge against Mr. Downing.  It had been that master’s somewhat injudicious practice for many years to treat his own house as a sort of Chosen People.  Of all masters, the most unpopular is he who by the silent tribunal of a school is convicted of favouritism.  And the dislike deepens if it is a house which he favours and not merely individuals.  On occasions when boys in his own house and boys from other houses were accomplices and partners in wrong-doing, Mr. Downing distributed his thunderbolts unequally, and the school noticed it.  The result was that not only he himself, but also—­which was rather unfair—­his house, too, had acquired a good deal of unpopularity.

The general consensus of opinion in Outwood’s during the luncheon interval was that, having got Downing’s up a tree, they would be fools not to make the most of the situation.

Barnes’s remark that he supposed, unless anything happened and wickets began to fall a bit faster, they had better think of declaring somewhere about half-past three or four, was met with a storm of opposition.

“Declare!” said Robinson.  “Great Scott, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Declare!” Stone’s voice was almost a wail of indignation.  “I never saw such a chump.”

“They’ll be rather sick if we don’t, won’t they?” suggested Barnes.

“Sick!  I should think they would,” said Stone.  “That’s just the gay idea.  Can’t you see that by a miracle we’ve got a chance of getting a jolly good bit of our own back against those Downing’s ticks?  What we’ve got to do is to jolly well keep them in the field all day if we can, and be jolly glad it’s so beastly hot.  If they lose about a dozen pounds each through sweating about in the sun after Jackson’s drives, perhaps they’ll stick on less side about things in general in future.  Besides, I want an innings against that bilge of old Downing’s, if I can get it.”

“So do I,” said Robinson.

“If you declare, I swear I won’t field.  Nor will Robinson.”

“Rather not.”

“Well, I won’t then,” said Barnes unhappily.  “Only you know they’re rather sick already.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Stone with a wide grin.  “They’ll be a lot sicker before we’ve finished.”

And so it came about that that particular Mid-term Service-day match made history.  Big scores had often been put up on Mid-term Service day.  Games had frequently been one-sided.  But it had never happened before in the annals of the school that one side, going in first early in the morning, had neither completed its innings nor declared it closed when stumps were drawn at 6.30.  In no previous Sedleigh match, after a full day’s play, had the pathetic words “Did not bat” been written against the whole of one of the contending teams.

These are the things which mark epochs.

Play was resumed at 2.15.  For a quarter of an hour Mike was comparatively quiet.  Adair, fortified by food and rest, was bowling really well, and his first half-dozen overs had to be watched carefully.  But the wicket was too good to give him a chance, and Mike, playing himself in again, proceeded to get to business once more.  Bowlers came and went.  Adair pounded away at one end with brief intervals between the attacks.  Mr. Downing took a couple more overs, in one of which a horse, passing in the road, nearly had its useful life cut suddenly short.  Change-bowlers of various actions and paces, each weirder and more futile than the last, tried their luck.  But still the first-wicket stand continued.

The bowling of a house team is all head and no body.  The first pair probably have some idea of length and break.  The first-change pair are poor.  And the rest, the small change, are simply the sort of things one sees in dreams after a heavy supper, or when one is out without one’s gun.

Time, mercifully, generally breaks up a big stand at cricket before the field has suffered too much, and that is what happened now.  At four o’clock, when the score stood at two hundred and twenty for no wicket, Barnes, greatly daring, smote lustily at a rather wide half-volley and was caught at short-slip for thirty-three.  He retired blushfully to the pavilion, amidst applause, and Stone came out.

As Mike had then made a hundred and eighty-seven, it was assumed by the field, that directly he had topped his second century, the closure would be applied and their ordeal finished.  There was almost a sigh of relief when frantic cheering from the crowd told that the feat had been accomplished.  The fieldsmen clapped in quite an indulgent sort of way, as who should say, “Capital, capital.  And now let’s start our innings.”  Some even began to edge towards the pavilion.  But the next ball was bowled, and the next over, and the next after that, and still Barnes made no sign. (The conscience-stricken captain of Outwood’s was, as a matter of fact, being practically held down by Robinson and other ruffians by force.)

A grey dismay settled on the field.

The bowling had now become almost unbelievably bad.  Lobs were being tried, and Stone, nearly weeping with pure joy, was playing an innings of the How-to-brighten-cricket type.  He had an unorthodox style, but an excellent eye, and the road at this period of the game became absolutely unsafe for pedestrians and traffic.

Mike’s pace had become slower, as was only natural, but his score, too, was mounting steadily.

“This is foolery,” snapped Mr. Downing, as the three hundred and fifty went up on the board.  “Barnes!” he called.

There was no reply.  A committee of three was at that moment engaged in sitting on Barnes’s head in the first eleven changing-room, in order to correct a more than usually feverish attack of conscience.

“Barnes!”

“Please, sir,” said Stone, some species of telepathy telling him what was detaining his captain.  “I think Barnes must have left the field.  He has probably gone over to the house to fetch something.”

“This is absurd.  You must declare your innings closed.  The game has become a farce.”

“Declare!  Sir, we can’t unless Barnes does.  He might be awfully annoyed if we did anything like that without consulting him.”

“Absurd.”

“He’s very touchy, sir.”

“It is perfect foolery.”

“I think Jenkins is just going to bowl, sir.”

Mr. Downing walked moodily to his place.

In a neat wooden frame in the senior day-room at Outwood’s, just above the mantelpiece, there was on view, a week later, a slip of paper.  The writing on it was as follows: 

OUTWOOD’S v.  DOWNING’S

Outwood’s.  First innings.

J. P. Barnes, c.  Hammond, b.  Hassall... 33 M. Jackson, not out........................ 277 W. J. Stone, not out....................... 124 Extras............................... 37   ----- Total (for one wicket)...... 471

Downing’s did not bat.

CHAPTER XLI

THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF JELLICOE

Outwood’s rollicked considerably that night.  Mike, if he had cared to take the part, could have been the Petted Hero.  But