Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

him, grinning like a gargoyle.

“Of all the absolutely delirious decisions⁠—” began Tom.

“Oh, yes,” said Dick rudely, “I know all about that. Why, I could hear the click from where I was sitting. The point is, what’s to be done now? We shall have to settle it on the second innings.”

“If there is one.”

“Oh, there’ll be a second innings all right. There’s another man out. On a wicket like this we shall all be out in an hour, and we’ll have the other side out in another hour, and then we’ll start again on this business. I shall play a big game next innings. It was only that infernal ball shooting that did me.”

“And I,” said Tom; “if the umpire has got over his fit of delirium tremens, or been removed to Colney Hatch, shall almost certainly make a century.”

It was four o’clock by the time Tom and Dick went to the wickets for the second time. Their side had been headed by their opponents by a dozen on the first innings⁠—68 to 56.

A splendid spirit of confidence animated the two batsmen. The umpire who had effected Tom’s downfall in the first innings had since received a hard drive in the small of the back as he turned coyly away to avoid the ball, and was now being massaged by strong men in the taproom of the village inn. It was the sort of occurrence, said Tom, which proved once and for all the existence of an all-seeing, benevolent Providence.

As for Dick, he had smoothed out a few of the more important mountain-ranges which marred the smoothness of the wicket, and was feeling that all was right with the world.

The pair started well. The demon bowler of the enemy, having been fêted considerably under the trees by enthusiastic admirers during the innings of his side, was a little incoherent in his deliveries. Four full-pitches did he send down to Dick in his first over, and Dick had placed 16 to his credit before Tom, who had had to look on anxiously, had opened his account. Dick was a slow scorer as a rule, but he knew a full-pitch to leg when he saw one.

From his place at the other crease Tom could see Miss Burn and her mother sitting under the trees, watching the game.

The sight nerved him. By the time he had played through his first over he had reduced Dick’s lead by half. An oyster would have hit out in such circumstances, and Tom was always an aggressive batsman. By the end of the third over the scores were level. Each had made 20.

Enthusiasm ran high amongst the spectators, or such of them as were natives of the village. Such a stand for the first wicket had not been seen in all the matches ever played in the neighbourhood. When Tom, with a nice straight drive (which should have been a 4, but was stopped by a cow and turned into a single), brought up the century, small boys burst buttons and octogenarians wept like babes.

The bowling was collared. The demon had long since retired grumbling to the deep field. Weird trundlers, with actions like nothing else on earth, had been tried, had fired their ringing shot, and passed. One individual had gone on with lobs, to the acute delight of everybody except the fieldsmen who had to retrieve the balls and the above-mentioned cow. And still Tom and Dick stayed in and smote, while in the west the sun slowly sank.

The Rev. Henry looked anxious. It was magnificent, but it must not be overdone. A little more and they would not have time to get the foe out for the second time. In which case the latter would win on the first innings. And this thought was as gall to him.

He walked out and addressed the rival captain.

“I think,” said he, “we will close our innings.”

Tom and Dick made two beelines for the scorer and waited palpitatingly for the verdict.

“What’s my score?” panted Tom.

“Fifty-fower, sur.”

“And mine?” gasped Dick.

“Fifty-fower, too, sur.”

“You see, my dear fellows,” said the Rev. Henry when they had finished⁠—and his voice was like unto oil that is poured into a wound⁠—“we had to win this match, and if you had gone on batting we should not have had time to get them out. As it is, we shall have to hurry.”

“But, hang it⁠—” said Tom.

“But, look here⁠—” said Dick.

“Yes?”

“What on earth are we to do?” said Tom.

“We’re in precisely the same hole as we were before,” said Dick.

“We don’t know how to manage it.”

“We’re absolutely bunkered.”

“Our competition, you see.”

“About Miss Burn, don’t you know.”

“Which is to propose first?”

“We can’t settle it.”

The Rev. Henry smiled a faint, saintly smile and raised a protesting hand.

“My advice,” he said, “is that both of you should refrain from proposing.”

“What?” said Dick.

“Wha-at?” said Tom.

“You see,” purred the Rev. Henry, “you are both very young fellows. Probably you do not know your own minds. You take these things too seri⁠—”

“Now, look here,” said Tom.

“None of that rot,” said Dick.

“I shall propose tonight.”

“I shall propose this evening.”

“I shouldn’t,” said the Rev. Henry. “The fact is⁠—”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“I didn’t tell you before, for fear it should put you off your game; but Miss Burn is engaged already, and has been for three days.”

The two rivals started.

“Engaged!” cried Tom.

“Whom to?” hissed Dick.

“Me,” murmured Harry.

In Alcala I

In Alcala, as in most of New York’s apartment houses, the schedule of prices is like a badly rolled cigarette⁠—thick in the middle and thin at both ends. The rooms halfway up are expensive; some of them almost as expensive as if Fashion, instead of being gone forever, were still lingering. The top rooms are cheap, the ground-floor rooms cheaper still.

Cheapest of all was the hall-bedroom. Its furniture was of the simplest. It consisted of a chair, another chair, a worn carpet, and a folding-bed. The folding-bed had an air of depression and baffled hopes. For years it had been trying to