I wrote to Sharples that night; reminded him of our ancient friendship; enlarged on the desirability of doing Jervis a good turn and thus securing a useful bat and excellent field for our Devonshire tour; and entreated him to do his best to persuade his friends, the bowling brethren, and, finally, to wire to me if all was well.
Two days later I received a telegram from him. "All right" (it ran); "have nobbled Barlows."
I packed my bag on Friday night with an easy mind. Barlow Brothers consisted of a tall, thin Barlow with a moustache, and a short, thin Barlow without one. They were quiet men, and took no part in the discussion which Gregory, our wicket-keeper, started in the dressing- room on the probability of Tomato beating Toffee-Drop in that afternoon's race. They also omitted to contribute to a symposium respecting the merits and demerits of the Stapleton ground. Outside, on the field, after I had lost the toss-my invariable custom-I sought them out and addressed them.
"It was awfully good of you two men to play," I began.
"Not at all," said the long brother suavely.
"Only too glad of a game," said the short brother with old-world courtesy.
"Nice day for the match."
"Capital," said the long brother.
"Top hole," said the short brother.
"The election seems to be causing a good deal of excitement down here," I went on. "Er-by the way, I understand that Sharples has-I mean to say, you've grasped the idea? Morley-Davenport, and all that, don't you know?"
"Sharples explained," said the clean-shaven Barlow.
"Good," I said. "Then that's all right. Of course, don't overdo it. We must win the match, if possible. Still, if you give him-say twenty- five or thirty, what?"
"Just so," said the Barlow with the moustache.
"Then will you start at the road end? We'd better be getting out into the field. Their first two men seem to be ready. That stout old chap in the Panama is your man. I asked their captain."
The candidate took first ball. He had walked to the wickets amidst a perfect storm of cheers and hooting from the large crowd. It seemed to me that the two parties were pretty equally divided. Not being abreast of local politics, I missed a good deal of the inner meaning of such words as I caught. Thus, when a very fat man near the pavilion called out: "What about the gorgonzola?" the question, though well received by the speaker's immediate neighbours, struck me as cryptic. Nor did I see why a reference to a kipper should elicit such applause. These things were a sealed book to me.
The longer Barlow opened the bowling, as requested. He proved to be a man of speed. He took a very long run, gave a jump in the middle, and hurled down a hurricane delivery wide of the off-stump. He was evidently determined not to let the part he was playing be obvious to the spectator. I was glad of this. I had been afraid that he might roll up stuff of such a kind that the crowd would assail him with yells of derision.
The candidate did not like it at all. He hopped to square-leg with an agility extremely creditable in one of his years. The crowd roared with happy laughter. "Hide behind the umpire, guv'nor," advised one light-hearted sportsman. The rest of the over was a repetition of the first ball. It was a maiden. The shorter Barlow wanted two men out on the boundary, from which I deduced that he was a slower bowler than his brother. The batsman who was to receive the ball was a tall, hatchet-faced man of about the same age as Mr. Morley-Davenport. There was a sort of look of the cricketer about him, but he seemed to me rather too much the veteran to be really effective.
The lesser Barlow turned out to be a slow left-hander, and, to judge from his first over, scarcely a Rhodes. His opening ball was a long- hop to leg, and the hatchet-faced man swept it to the boundary. From the roar of applause which ensued I gathered that he was by way of being a local favourite. When he treated the second ball in precisely the same way, I began to be uneasy. If Barlow the lesser bowled like this when he was trying to get a man out, what sort of bilge, if I may be permitted the expression, would he serve up when he was doing his best to let a man make runs? I should have to take him off, in deference to popular indignation, and his successor might-probably would-dismiss our candidate with his first ball.
Fortunately the rest of the over was better. Off the last ball the batsman scored a single, to the huge relief of Mr. Morley-Davenport, who trotted up to the other end evidently delighted at not having to face the fast bowler. Our man of pace opened with three of his best length'uns, which the batsman prudently let alone. As I watched him running up to deliver the fourth, my heart sank, for his whole aspect said that here was a man who was going to bowl a slow head-ball. I was fielding mid-on, and I edged apprehensively towards the boundary. Short-leg also looked far from comfortable. Anything more futile than the ball when it did arrive I have seldom seen. It was a full-pitch on the off, and was despatched over point's head to the ropes, producing fresh applause from the crowd, which was redoubled when the batsman hit a four and a two off the concluding balls.
Some fate seemed to brood over Mr. Morley-Davenport. He slashed valiantly at our slow bowler's next over without hitting a single ball. I could not say that it was the bowler's fault. He certainly seemed to be sending down stuff that was sufficiently easy. But the candidate could not get the measure of it, and there were distinct cat-calls from the neighbourhood of the pavilion as the fieldsmen crossed over. The fat critic once more inquired mystically after the gorgonzola. The game now proceeded in a most unsatisfactory manner. Twenty went up on the board from a snick through the slips on the part of the hatchet-faced man. I had misjudged the beast. He might be a veteran, but he obviously knew how to lay on the wood. He hit a couple of twos off the fast Barlow and a four and a three off the slow Barlow. Thirty went up. Ten minutes later it was followed by forty. And all this while the man Morley-Davenport had not scored a run. He hit over balls and under balls and on each side of balls, and very occasionally he blundered into a ball and sent it to a fieldsman. But never a run did he gather. The situation was becoming feverish. I had not looked for this when Jervis had lured me into becoming his catspaw. Jervis, who was all this while in London, well out of the whole thing!
Matters were growing complicated. The crowd, which had by this time definitely decided to consider the thing funny, laughed heartily whenever Mr. Morley-Davenport let a ball pass him, and applauded thunderously if he happened to hit one. The telegraph-board showed the figures 50. Gloomy discontent had seized the Weary Willies. Changing across between the overs men ostentatiously practised bowling actions, hoping against hope that I would put them on. I could see them becoming misanthropes under my very eyes.
I resolved to abandon Jervis and his schemes. The longer Barlow was just beginning an over. It should be his last. If Morley-Davenport could not score except at the rate of two runs an hour (he had snicked a ball to leg just before the fifty went up, and the crowd had applauded for a solid minute), he must go, and take his chance at the polling.
I had barely framed this ultimatum in my mind when his off-stump flew out of the ground. A fast yorker had compassed his downfall.
"At last!" said mid-off, and flung himself on the ground.
The bowler came over to me.
"I'm very sorry," he said in his quiet way, "but I thought-"
"Quite right," I said. "Life's too short. We should have to run this match as a serial if we wanted that man to get twenty. He wouldn't do it before the middle of next season. Poor devil, though, it's rather hard on him. Listen to those fellows!"
The crowd had risen as one man, and was cheering the outgoing batsman as if he had made a century. References to the gorgonzola rose above the din.