Fate Cannot Harm Me (16 page)

Johnny Rashwood took his place. He was a stylish and quick-scoring batsman, and he did not suffer from nerves. But though he was not nervous he was temperamental, and ill-chance had arranged that he had sat next to the Colonel as he waited for his innings. An innocent shout of “good shot” from him during Monty's innings had elicited some pungent criticism from his companion.

“I don't call that a good shot at this stage in the innings. Renshaw is always absurdly reckless. He ought to be consolidating the position for the later batsmen, not taking risks when we need so many runs. He doesn't watch the ball long enough, or know when he ought to leave the off-ball alone. He's …”

“Good shot,” broke in Johnny in a possibly unduly aggressive tone, as Monty scored another boundary.

The Colonel flushed angrily.

“Reckless, reckless,” he observed. “Renshaw's utterly lacking in judgment and patience. Ah! I told you so,”—for Colquhoun had just caught Monty in the slips—“Just what he deserved, and what I expected. Now don't you do anything foolish, young man. You've got to play very steadily for half an hour or so—there are plenty of us to get runs quickly if need be later on. Go slow, and watch the ball.”

No advice could have been more certain to rouse Johnny's worst instincts.

“I'll teach that bloody old man to lecture me on cricket,” he murmured as he walked to the wicket. “Why the hell can't he keep quiet after fielding worse than anyone on God's earth too.” No doubt after a couple of overs he would have recovered his equanimity, but that breathing-space was not allowed him. His first ball was a half-volley, and Johnny, jumping in to hit, put into his shot all the irritation which he had bottled up during his conversation with the Colonel. He hit it full in the middle of the bat, and it looked a six all the way. Looked good for six, and deserved to be six, but was not—for Lees's long field moving about five yards caught the ball with one hand high above his head just inside the boundary.

“Bad luck,” said Basil as he came into the pavilion, “but what a magnificent catch.”

Johnny grinned a little sheepishly; fortunately he had humour enough to laugh at himself.

“Yes, grand catch,” he said, “the hands were the hands of Esau, but the voice, if you follow me, was the voice of Murcher-Pringle.” The Colonel meantime had marched to the wicket, attended by Tom Appleby, who was to run for him. Having by now recovered from the exertions of fielding, and having forgotten his own errors in the field, he was again at the height of his form, for it had pleased him to see the two previous batsmen prove the accuracy of his forebodings. He lectured Tom, as they walked out, on the necessity of smart backing up, he told Clerk at the other end to be careful not to run on the wicket, he took guard with elaborate fussiness, and then instructed the fielding side, quite unnecessarily, to shift the screen a couple of yards to the right. Most of his own side would cheerfully have drowned him had opportunity offered, before he went in to bat; by the time that he prepared to take his first ball the visiting side, though not so actively hostile, would certainly not have pulled him out of the water had he chanced to fall in.
But the Colonel, as George always said, was still a difficult man to dislodge; he had a disconcerting habit of stopping the ball somehow, and of scoring an occasional single off the edge of his bat. Scoring at the rate of about a run a minute he and Clerk rather laboriously added twenty to the score; at half past four, with a quarter of an hour still to go to tea-time, the total was 65, and the bowling was beginning to lose its sting.

“Game seems to have got into a flat spin,” suggested Basil, sitting in the pavilion; but he had hardly spoken before, in the current phrase, things began to happen.

Clerk had batted very steadily, but slowly, for an hour, and he knew that he must begin to take risks if his side was not to get behind the clock. He therefore swung round at a shortish ball and tried to take four off it on the leg side. Unfortunately he hit it on the upper edge of the bat, and the ball soared up in the direction of square-leg. Even so he seemed safe enough, for there was no one fielding there—but mid-on thought otherwise. He was very fast and he had started as the shot was made. Making a great deal of ground he just reached the catch, going at full speed. But Boone, the square leg umpire, had not observed his approach, and the fieldsman clutching the ball, crashed into him, head against head, as the catch was made. Clerk was out, but so, in a slightly different sense, were both umpire and mid-on. The heads of both were cut, and it was obvious that they would have to go in for repairs. George Appleby came hurrying out with offers of assistance.

“I'm terribly sorry, Oliver,” he said, “what can we do about this?”

“Oh—a bit of sticking plaster will put them right, Appleby, and it's only ten minutes to tea-time. If you don't mind, send out a substitute to field, and perhaps you wouldn't mind taking over the umpire's job yourself till the tea-interval.”

“Of course I will. But, by the way, I'm afraid I've
got to ask you to allow my next batsman to have a runner as well—the Admiral's leg has gone.”

“Naturally, Appleby. Let him have a runner by all means, and we'll get on with the game.”

By the time that the game was restarted there were, therefore, no less than six of the batting side (not counting Merton) on the field of play. George was acting as temporary umpire, Johnny Rashwood was fielding as substitute, the Colonel was batting at one end with Tom as his runner, and the Admiral was at the other end with Clerk in attendance. Monty noticed with amusement that Sir Anstruther, who never gave anything away, had reorganized his field in order to put Johnny at cover-point.

He turned to Cynthia, who was sitting by him.

“This is really a fine sight, Cynthia,” he remarked, “observe the chivalry of both sides, each anxious to assist the other, and watch the gallant Admiral determined to do his best in spite of all physical handicaps. What does he remind you of?”

“A battleship, heavily damaged by enemy fire,” suggested Cynthia.

“Not bad. But I suggest a wooden ship; the
Fighting Temeraire
or something of that sort:

‘Round the world if need be, and round the world again, With the lame duck lagging, lagging all the way.'”

The Admiral was, indeed, in a somewhat battered condition, though his enthusiasm was undiminished. In the field he had pursued the ball with praiseworthy zeal, but as he was a heavy man, and carried a good deal of fat, he had rapidly become distressed. It was some time since he had taken violent exercise, and his muscles were unequal to the strain put upon them. He had mopped his brow with a large bandana handkerchief, he had creaked in every joint as he lumbered across the field, and, shortly after lunch, in attempting to intercept a ball
at mid-on he had pulled a muscle in his thigh. Through the rest of the Besterton innings he had hobbled gallantly, but now, after he had sat still for an hour; his leg had stiffened, and his movements were slow and cumbrous in the extreme. However, he waved his bat cheerfully to the Colonel as he passed him on his progress to the wicket.

“We're a couple of old crocks, Colonel,” he remarked, “but we'll show them how to bat, what?”

“I can look after
my
end,” replied the Colonel with a scowl, and prepared to receive the bowling, for his runner and Clerk had crossed whilst the catch was in the air.

Lees delivered the next ball—a ball which was destined to become famous in the annals of Fincham cricket. It was just outside the off-stump, and the Colonel succeeded in hitting it, for the first time in his innings, with the middle or almost the middle of his bat, into the gap between cover and extra. A certain one or two runs, possibly four if extra-cover could not cut it off on the boundary. But the Colonel had forgotten Johnny Rash-wood at cover. In that position Johnny was, so all the critics said, about as good as Jessop had been at his best. He moved swiftly and low over the ground (as in the case of all the great cover-points his centre of gravity seemed to be low), his anticipation was uncanny, and above all he had the perfect throw for a cover-point, with elbow and hand both apparently below the shoulder, and the flick of the wrist which returned the ball at lightning speed to the wicket. As the Colonel played his shot Johnny moved like a panther to the right, swooped on to the ball with no inch to spare, picked it cleanly off the grass, and was in the same movement poised to hurl it at the wicket. Meantime a confused shout had arisen from the batsmen and their runners. At the post-mortem afterwards no one agreed exactly as to the responsibility of the protagonists. Monty's account was as likely to be correct as that of any one else. Let it be stated then,
without comment. The fierce “Run” must have come from the Colonel's throat, the thunderous “No” from the Admiral's. “Come on” was probably Clerk's contribution, and the anxious “Wait” was that of Tom Appleby. Whosoever the fault both runners charged up the pitch, and met just in time to realize that Johnny had intercepted the ball; they hesitated and were lost.

“Run, Sir!” screamed the Colonel.

“Come back!” bellowed the Admiral.

Caught in a common panic both runners charged madly down the pitch, but both, unfortunately, in the same direction. They arrived neck and neck at the Admiral's end. A roar of delight from the crowd warned them of their situation; as though governed by some higher power both raced side by side back to the middle of the pitch. Still the Admiral thundered instructions from one end, whilst the Colonel trumpeted inarticulate wrath from the other. The runners had both entirely lost grip of the situation; they stood helpless side by side in the middle of the pitch.

Meantime Johnny Rashwood hesitated. It was his moment, and well he knew it! All day he had suffered from the Colonel, but the time for revenge had come; he had only to flick the ball to the wicket-keeper and the Colonel was out. But was he? Just as he prepared to throw he realized that the two runners were side by side, and it was not at all clear to him which batsman would be out if he threw to the wicket-keeper's end. And so as they raced together to the bowler's end and then back to the middle he still held his fire; finally he could hesitate no longer; he flung the ball to the wicket-keeper, who gently removed the bails, and George Appleby's finger went up.

“Out!” he said—rather unnecessarily.

Both the Colonel and the Admiral, however, stood firm, and each glared at the other. The Admiral spoke first.

“Bad luck, Colonel,” he said, “I'm sorry you're out; that ends our little partnership.”

The reply was brusque and uncompromising.

“Rubbish, Admiral, it's you that has just been given out. Ridiculous how these young men lose their heads in a crisis.”

Admiral Findon-Duff was a good-tempered man but he was unused to contradiction. Insensibly he assumed the manner of the quarter-deck.

“I understand, Sir, that the umpire is there to decide such matters. Appleby, which batsman is out?”

“I don't know,” said George helplessly.

The Colonel snorted. “When I was a boy we were accustomed to accept decisions in a sporting spirit; I'm surprised, Admiral, that you should hesitate to follow the spirit as well as the letter of the law.”

Many years spent in bullying his juniors had made the Colonel careless in his methods, but now he had fairly roused an opponent in every sense worthy of him. For the Admiral, once committed to the quarrel, was determined to see it through. His chest swelled with indignation, and he hobbled down the pitch to confront his opponent.

“Colonel Murcher-Pringle,” he said in a voice hoarse with indignation, “I shall take no notice of that gratuitous insult. But I am the senior officer present, and as such I order you to leave the field. You are out, Sir, and out you shall go.”

The red of the Colonel's face slowly acquired a purple hue.

“Seniority in the service has nothing whatever to do with the matter. I am the older man, and entitled to some consideration. And, Sir, allow me to remind you that the good of the side must be taken into account. I am firmly set—you have not commenced your innings—it is obvious that, in the interests of the side, you should retire.”

In sober truth the Colonel had made eleven—a four to leg, which he had scored in protecting his body from a fast full pitch (bowled, perhaps, not without malice) and seven singles, all scored behind the wicket with the edge of his bat. But he produced his argument with conviction. The Admiral, however, was ready for him.

“Then, Sir,” he snapped, “as the older man you are probably already exhausted, and in the interests of the side you should make room for younger and fresher players—I feel fit to play a long innings.”

At this moment George Appleby approached the two angry men, in the manner of one anxious to put an end to a dog-fight, but uncertain of the best method to adopt to achieve that result.

“I am going to spin a coin,” he announced in a voice which he hoped sounded firmer to others than it did to himself, “and the one who loses the toss must go.” He spun the coin high into the air, before either had time to raise an objection.

“Tails,” shouted the Colonel.

“Tails,” roared the Admiral, a half-second after him. The coin fell to the ground, the head upwards.

“Aha, I'm afraid you've called wrong,” said the Admiral. “Now I hope you will see the propriety of retiring.”

“What the devil do you mean, Sir, you called ‘tails' yourself as well.”

“I was merely repeating your call to make sure that I had heard you correctly, and that you would not attempt to alter it,” retorted the Admiral with barefaced effrontery.

Johnny Rashwood, convinced at last that the Colonel had met his match, could scarcely forbear to cheer, but George Appleby was making another effort to settle the dispute. He was about to suggest spinning his coin again, when he noticed that Merton had left his end, and come up beside him.