"Breakfast disagree with you, Flashy?" says Mynn. "You lock a mite peaky - hollo, though, there's your opponent all ready. Come along."
Solomon was already on the lawn, very business-like in corduroys and pumps, with a straw hat on his black head, smiling at me and shaking hands while the swells clapped politely and the popular crowd shouted and rattled their pots. I stripped off my coat and donned my pumps, and then little Felix spun the bat; I called "blade", and so it was. "Very good," says I to Solomon, "you'll bat first."
"Capital!" cries he, with a flash of teeth. "Then may the better man win!"
"He will," says I, and called for the ball, while Solomon, rot his impudence, went across to Elspeth and made great play of having her wish him luck; he even had the gall to ask her for her handkerchief to tie in his belt —"for I must carry the lady's colours, you know," cries he, making a great joke of it.
Of course she obliged him, and then, catching my glare, fluttered that of course I must carry her colours, too, to show no favouritism. But she hadn't another wipe, so the minx Judy said she must borrow hers to give me - and I finished up with that sly slut's snot-rag in my belt, and she sitting with her acid tongue in her cheek.
We went out to the wicket together, and Felix gave Solomon guard; he took his time over it, too, patting his block-hole and feeling the pitch before him, very business-like, while I fretted and swung my arm. It was spongy turf, I realized, so I wasn't going to get much play out of it - no doubt Solomon had taken that into account, too. Much good might it do him.
"Play!" calls Felix, and a hush fell round the lawn, everyone expectant for the first ball. I tightened my belt, while Solomon waited in his turn, and then let him have one of my hardest - I'll swear he went pale as it shot past his shins and went first bounce into the bushes. The mob cheered, and I turned and bowled again.
The spectators yelled in amazement, and by George, they weren't alone. I flung down my bat, cursing; Solomon stared in disbelief, half-delighted, half-frowning. "I believe you did that on purpose," cries he.
"Did I -!" says I, furious. I'd meant to hit him into the next county - but ain't it the way, if a task is too easy, we botch it often as not? I could have kicked myself for my carelessness - thinking like a cricketer, you understand. For with 21 runs in it, I might easily lose the match now - the question was: did I want to? There was Tighe's red waistcoat under the trees - on the other hand, there was Elspeth, looking radiant, clapping her gloved hands and crying "Well played!" while Solomon tipped his hat gracefully and I tried to put on a good face. By Jove, though, it was him she was looking at - no doubt picturing herself under a tropic moon already, with inconvenient old Flashy safely left behind - no, by God, to the devil with Tighe, and his threats and blackmail - I was going to win this match, and be damned to everyone.
We had a sandwich and a glass, while the swells chattered round us, and the Canterbury professional rubbed embrocation on Solomon's knee. "Splendid game, old fellow!" cries the Don, raising his lemonade in my direction. "I'll have some more of my lobs for you directly!" I laughed and said I hoped they weren't such twisters as his first one, for it had had me all at sea, and he absolutely looked pleased, the bloody farmer.
"It is so exciting!" cries Elspeth. "Oh, who is going to win? I don't think I could bear it for either of them to lose - could you, Judy?"
"Indeed not," says Judy. "Capital fun. Just think, my dear - you cannot lose, either way, for you will gain a jolly voyage if the Don wins, or if Harry succeeds, why, he will have two thousand pounds to spend on you."
"Oh I can't think of it that way!" cries my darling spouse. "It is the game that counts, I'm sure." Damned idiot. "Now then, gentlemen," cries Felix, clapping his hands.
"We've had more eating and drinking than cricket so far. Your hand, Don," and he led us out for the second innings.
I had learned my lesson from my first bowling spell, and had a good notion now of where Solomon's strength and weakness lay. He was quick, and sure-footed, and his back game was excellent, but I'd noticed that he wasn't too steady with his forward strokes, so I pitched well up to him, on the leg stump; the wicket was getting the green off it, with being played on, and I'd hopes of perhaps putting a rising ball into his groin, or at least making him hop about. He met my attack pretty well, though, and played a hanging guard, taking the occasional single on the on side. But I pegged away, settling him into place, with the ball going into his legs, and then sent one t'other way; he didn't come within a foot of it, and his off-stump went down flat.
He'd made ten runs that hand, so I had 32 to get to win - and while it ain't many against a muffin of a bowler, well, you can't afford a single mistake. And I wasn't a batter to trade; however, with care I should be good enough to see Master Solomon away - if I wanted to. For as I took guard, I could see Tighe's red weskit out of the corner of my eye, and felt a tremor of fear up my spine. By George, if I won and sent his stake money down the drain, he'd do his best to ruin me, socially and physically, no error - and what was left the Duke's bruisers would no doubt share between 'em. Was anyone ever in such a cursed fix - but here was Felix calling "Play!" and the Don shuffling up to deliver his donkey-drop.
It's a strange thing about bad bowling - it can be deuced difficult to play, especially when you know you have only one life to lose, and have to abandon your usual swiping style. In an ordinary game, I'd have hammered Solomon's rubbish all over the pasture, but now I had to stay cautiously back, while he dropped his simple lobs on a length - no twist at all but dead straight - and I was so nervous that I edged some of them, and would have been a goner if there'd been even an old woman fielding at slip. It made him look a deal better than he was, and the crowd cheered every ball, seeing the slogger Flashy pinned to his crease.
However, I got over my first shakes, tried a drive or two, and had the satisfaction of seeing him tearing about and sweating while I ran a few singles. That was a thing about single wicket; even a good drive might not win you much, for to score one run you had to race to the bowler's end and back, whereas in an ordinary match the same work would have brought you two. And all his careering about the outfield didn't seem to trouble his bowling, which was as bad - but still as straight - as ever. But I hung on, and got to a dozen, and when he sent me a full pitch, I let fly and hit him clean over the house, running eight while he vanished frantically round the building, with the small boys whooping in his wake, and the ladies standing up and squeaking with excitement. I was haring away between the wickets, with the mob chanting each run, and was beginning to think I'd run past his total when he hove in sight again, trailing dung and nettles, and threw the ball across the crease, so that I had to leave off:
So there I was, with 20 runs, 12 still needed to win, and both of us blowing like whales. And now my great decision could be postponed no longer - was I going to beat him, and take the consequences from Tighe, or let him win and have a year in which to seduce Elspeth on his confounded boat? The thought of him murmuring greasily beside her at the taffrail while she got drunk on moonlight and flattery fairly maddened me, and I banged his next delivery against the front door for another three runs - and as I waited panting for his next ball, there under the trees was the beast Tighe, hat down on his brows and thumbs hooked in his weskit, staring at me, with his cudgel-coves behind him. I swallowed, missed the next ball, and saw it shave my bails by a whisker.
What the blazes should I do? Tighe was saying a word over his shoulder to one of his thugs - and I swung wildly at the next ball and sent it high over Solomon's head. I was bound to run, and that was another two - seven to get to win. He bowled again, and for once produced a shooter; I poked frantically at it, got the edge, and it went scuttling away in front of the bounds for a single. Six to get, and the spectators were clapping and laughing and egging us on. I leaned on my bat, watching Tighe out of the corner of my eye and conjuring up nameless fears - no, they weren't nameless. I couldn't face the certainty of it being published that I'd taken money from a tout, and having his assassins walk on my face in a Haymarket alley into the bargain. I must lose - and if Solomon rogered Elspeth all over the Orient, well, I'd not be there to see it. I turned to look in her direction, and she stood up and waved to me, ever so pretty, calling encouragement; I looked at Solomon, his black hair wet with perspiration and his eyes glittering as he ran up to bowl - and I roared "No, by God!" and cut him square and hard, clean through a ground-floor window.