Part 9 (2/2)
However, his name remained on the list, and on the great day he did turn out with the Eleven, going in last and being bowled first ball, much to the gratification of Mr. Elliott.
The Hivites made a hundred and seventy-eight,--not a bad score, as house-matches go. Then the Hitt.i.tes took the field. They sent in a red-headed youth named Evans, and a long, lean individual who rejoiced in the thoroughly incongruous nickname of ”Tiny.” He played with an appallingly straight bat, but seldom took liberties with the bowling.
The opening of the innings was not eventful. House-matches are very much alike as a cla.s.s. Everybody knows everybody else's game to a nicety, and the result is usually a question of nerves. Tiny and Evans poked systematically and exasperatingly at every ball sent down; the clumps of dark-blue Hitt.i.tes and pink Hivites round the field subsided into rec.u.mbent apathy; and Pip, who was fielding at short slip, began to feel that if house-matches were all as dull as this one he might get through without further disgracing himself.
But Marsh, the bowler, was also a cricketer. He saw that Evans, who was not naturally a defensive player, was getting very tired of poking to order, and resolved to tempt him. He accordingly sent down one of the worst b.a.l.l.s ever seen on the school pitch. Evans wavered for a moment, but, remembering his orders, let it go by. It was followed by another, exactly like it: once again Evans restrained his itching bat. But the third was too much for him, and he smote it incontinently over the ropes, to the huge delight of the Hitt.i.tes.
”Now he's got his eye in!” remarked Master Simpson of the Hitt.i.tes to Master Mumford, who was sitting beside him on the railings.
”Rot!” replied that youth, as in duty bound, but without conviction.
”Any a.s.s could see that Marsh gave him that ball on purpose.”
”On purpose? What for?” inquired Simpson doubtfully.
”What a question to ask!” replied Mumford, casting about for an answer.
”Of course you don't know enough about the game, but the reason why Marsh bowled that particular ball was--Hooray! Hoor-a-a-ay-ee-ah-ooh!
Well held, sir! What did I say, young Simpson?”
For Evans, throwing caution to the winds, had lashed out at a good ball, the last of Marsh's over, and it was now reposing safely in the hands of Mid-off.
Another disaster befell the Hitt.i.tes a few minutes later. Tiny, who had been stepping out and playing forward with the irritating accuracy of an automaton, played just inside a ball from the Hivite fast bowler, Martin. The ball glanced off his bat, and almost at the same moment Pip became conscious of a violent pain, suggestive of red-hot iron, in his right arm-pit. He clapped his hand to the part affected, and to his astonishment drew forth the ball, to a storm of applause from the delighted Hivites, while Tiny retired, speechless and scarlet, to the Pavilion.
But trouble was in store for the Hivites. The two new batsmen were the opposing captain, one Hewett, a smiter of uncompromising severity, and a somewhat amorphous and pimply youth, dest.i.tute of nerves, who was commonly addressed as ”Scrabbler.” These twain treated the firm of Marsh and Martin with a disrespect that amounted almost to discourtesy. The score rose from forty-five to a hundred, and from a hundred to a hundred and thirty-five, notwithstanding the subst.i.tution of two fresh bowlers of established reputation and fair merit. The Hivites began to look unhappy. Their fielding, which hitherto had been well up to the mark, now deteriorated; and when the Scrabbler was missed at the wicket from a snick that was heard all over the ground, Master Simpson became so offensive that Mumford found it necessary to withdraw out of earshot.
At this point Marsh, having obeyed the law which says that when your first-eleven colour-men have failed, you must try your second-eleven colour-men; and when you have done that, you may begin to speculate on outsiders, decided to put Pip on. He accordingly tossed him the ball at the beginning of the next over.
Pip had been living for this moment ever since his name had appeared in the list, and he had carefully rehea.r.s.ed all the movements necessary to the occasion. He would pick up the ball negligently, hand his cap to the umpire, and place his field with a few comprehensive motions of his arm.
He would then toss down a few practice b.a.l.l.s to the wicket-keeper, and, after a final glance round the field, proceed to bring the Hitt.i.te innings to an inglorious conclusion.
But, alas! whether it was from insufficient rehearsal, or blue funk, Pip's performance was a dreadful failure. He forgot to hand his cap to the umpire; he made no attempt to place his field; and so far was he from casting cool glances around him before commencing his onslaught that he was only prevented, by the heavy hand of the adjacent Scrabbler, from beginning to bowl before the fielders had crossed over.
And when he did begin, the ball which was to have made a crumbling ruin of Hewett's wicket proved to be a fast full-pitch to leg; the second ball was a long-hop to the off; and the third, which had originally been intended to complete Pip's hat-trick, nearly annihilated the gentleman who was fielding point. Marsh was very patient, and made no comment as ball after ball was despatched to the boundary. He would have liked to give the boy time to find his feet, but this sort of thing was too expensive. After two inglorious overs Pip retired once more to second slip, with his inscrutable countenance as inscrutable as ever, but his heart almost bursting beneath his white s.h.i.+rt, with shame and humiliation and a downright grief. It was the first tragedy of his life.
But he had his revenge a moment later. The Scrabbler, with a pretty late cut, despatched a fast ball from Martin straight to Pip. Pip automatically clapped his heels together and ducked down to the ball, but just a moment too late. He felt the ball glance off each instep and pa.s.s behind him. The Scrabbler's partner, seeing that Pip had not stopped the ball, called to him to come; then, seeing that the ball had only rolled a few yards, called to him to go back. But Pip by this time had reached the ball. The Scrabbler made a frantic leap back into safety. Pip's long arm shot out, and as the batsman hung for a moment between heaven and earth in his pa.s.sage back to the crease, he saw wickets and bails disintegrate themselves in wild confusion in response to a thunderbolt despatched from Pip's left hand at a range of six yards.
The partners.h.i.+p was over at last, and the Hitt.i.tes offered little more resistance. They were all out in another half hour, for a total of two hundred and fifteen,--a score long enough to cause the Hivites to confer gloomily among themselves and ignore the unseemly joy of the Hitt.i.tes.
So play ended for the day.
The match was to be resumed on the following Thursday, two days later.
On Wednesday evening Ham sat smoking in his room. He was expecting Pip, who generally chose that time for returning works of fiction. On this occasion Pip was rather long in coming, and when he did come he was not the usual Pip. He had not encountered his form-master in private since the house-match, and was uncertain of his reception. Only the strictest sense of duty brought his faltering feet to Mr. Hanbury's door, and it was with downcast eye and m.u.f.fled voice that he proffered ”Handley Cross” in exchange for ”The Jungle Book.”
Ham knew his man, and discreetly avoided cricketing topics for the first five minutes. He talked of Mr. Jorrocks, of Mowgli, of the weather--of anything, in fact, rather than half-volleys and full-pitches. It was Pip, with his usual directness, who opened the subject.
”Do you think it will keep fine, sir?”
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