Part 11 (1/2)

Martin now resumed at his end. Evans, who had been a horrified and helpless spectator of his companions' downfall, played him in a cautious manner, as became the occasion, intending to sneak a run at the end of the over and so face the redoubtable Pip himself. But it was not to be. In his anxiety to obtain the necessary run he attempted to hit a ball which he knew should have been let alone, and was caught at cover-point. Five for forty-nine.

Once more it was Pip's turn. He found himself confronted by another hard slogger, who, instead of sticking to his last, trusting to his eye, and running out to hit, stood stock-still, and having solemnly planted his bat in what he imagined was the path of the ball, awaited developments.

The ball, curling like a boomerang, pitched slightly to leg, broke back, and bowled him. Six for forty-nine.

The frenzy of the Hivites was becoming almost monotonous, and it was hardly capable of augmentation when Pip bowled another man with his next ball, bringing his a.n.a.lysis up to five wickets for no runs.

”The match is over,” said Uncle Bill; ”but it will be interesting to see if he keeps it up to the end.”

”'Not for compet.i.tion, but for exhibition only'--now,” murmured Hanbury dreamily.

The next man held his bat firmly in the block-hole, as the best means of combating the third ball of the over,--the fast yorker,--and with the a.s.sistance of short-slip, who received the ball in the pit of his stomach and incontinently dropped it, disappointed the entire field, friend and foe alike, by spoiling Pip's hat-trick. The batsman, a person of unorthodox style, having succeeded in despatching a yorker to slip, decided that the best place for a good length ball would be long-leg. He accordingly stepped in front of his wicket for the purpose of carrying his intention into effect; but the ball, much to his surprise and indignation, evaded the all-embracing sweep of bat and hit him hard on both s.h.i.+ns, with the result that he was very properly given out leg-before-wicket.

The spectators now realised that the match was as good as over; but curiosity to see how much longer Pip would continue his extraordinary entertainment glued them to the spot. Pip himself had lost all consciousness of the presence of others. All his little soul was concentrated on one idea--to get the last two wickets with the two b.a.l.l.s remaining to him.

The last batsman but one took his place, and Pip bowled his slow ball.

The batsman watched it as he had been told to do, and decided in a weak moment that it was going to be a good length ball on the off. This being the case, he proposed to make use of his only stroke, a rather elaborate flourish, which, if it could be engineered at precisely the right moment, occasionally came off as a late cut. The one error into which this lightning calculator fell was the belief that the ball would pitch off the wicket. It pitched absolutely straight, got up remarkably quickly, and, almost before the flourish was half over, bowled him. Nine for forty-nine.

The last man walked out slowly, but he had reached the wicket before Pip noticed him. For Pip was plunged in thought: he had once more arrived at the last ball of the over, the ball that he was to bowl in any way he pleased. A good deal--nay, everything--depended upon it. He was determined to bowl no more full-pitches to leg. A yorker, if straight, would almost certainly settle the fate of this last trembling creature; but then yorkers are not always straight. A good length ball, on the other hand, would probably be blocked.

”Man in,” said the umpire, and suddenly Pip made up his mind.

”His sixth ball!” remarked Uncle Bill under the trees. ”What will it be this time, I wonder?”

”If he wants to do the hat-trick,” said Hanbury, ”he must take some risks. No good giving this fellow a length ball. He'll only block it.

Pip'll have to tempt him.”

And that is what Pip did. He bowled a very short ball, a very bad ball, a long-hop unspeakable, on the off side. Now, the batsman was expecting a good ball, and was prepared to present to it an immovable bat. But this thing, this despicable object which lobbed up so temptingly, ought he to spare it? ”Take no risks,” Hewett had said; but then Hewett was not expecting this demon bowler to send down tosh like this. Should he?

Could he? Yes--no--yes! He raised his bat uncertainly, and made a half-hearted pull at the ball. It struck his bat somewhere on the splice,--the curl in the air had deceived one more victim,--flew up into the air, and, when it descended, found Pip waiting for it with a pair of hands that would at that moment have gripped a red-hot cannonball.

So the innings ended for forty-nine, and the Hivites won by seventy-one runs. In two overs Pip had taken eight wickets (doing the hat-trick incidentally) for no runs. Verily, in a house-match all things are possible. He never accomplished such a feat again, though his seven wickets for seven runs against the Australians ten years later, and his four wickets in four b.a.l.l.s, on that historic occasion when the Gentlemen beat the Players by an innings, were relatively far greater performances.

He turned mechanically to the umpire and took his cap, and was in the act of unrolling his sleeves, when he was suddenly caught up, whirled aloft, and carried off towards the pavilion by a seething wave of frenzied Hivites. Those enthusiasts who were debarred from supporting any portion of him contented themselves with slapping outlying parts of his person and uttering discordant whoops.

Somewhere beneath his left arm-pit Pip discovered the inflamed countenance of Master Mumford.

”Where's young Simpson?” he screamed in that worthy's ear, not so much because he wished to know as to relieve the extreme tension of the situation.

It was a senseless and inappropriate question, but it appeared to bring Mumford's cup of happiness to overflowing point. Laying his uncombed head upon Pip's horizontal stomach, with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, he gasped,--

”H-he went down to the house to g-get his k-kodak as soon as y-you were put on bowling, so as to phuph-photograph the winning hit. And oh, he s-said they would w-win by nine wickets! He h-hasn't got back yet.”

But he was wrong. There stood Master Simpson, ready to photograph the winning hit. But, like the Briton and the sportsman that he was, he made the best of a bad job and photographed Pip instead. And an enlarged copy of that snapshot hangs in Pip's smoking-room to-day, to witness if I lie.

CHAPTER V

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