How they cheered, as Solomon thundered through the quality seats, the ladies fluttering to let him by, and the men laughing fit to burst; he hurtled through the front door, and as I completed my second run I turned to see that ominous figure in the red weskit; he and his cronies were the only still, silent members of that whole excited assembly. Damnn Solomon - was he going to take all day finding the bloody ball? I had to run, with my nerve failing again; I lumbered up the pitch, and there was a great howl from the house; Solomon was emerging dishevelled and triumphant as I made the third run - only another three and the match was mine.
But I couldn't face it; I knew I daren't win - after all, I wasn't any too confident of Elspeth's virtue as it was; one Solomon more or less wasn't going to make all that much difference - better be a cuckold than a disgraced cripple. I had wobbled in intent all through the past half-hour, but now I did my level best to hand Solomon the game. I swiped and missed, but my wicket remained intact; I prodded a catch at him, and it fell short; I played a ball to the off, went for a single that I hadn't a hope of getting - and the great oaf, with nothing to do but throw down my wicket for victory, shied wildly wide in his excitement. I stumbled home, with the mob yelling delightedly; Solomon 31, Flashy 30, and even little Felix was hopping from one leg to the other as he signalled Solomon to bowl on.
There wasn't a whisper round the field now. I waited at the crease, bowels dissolving, as Solomon stood doubled over, regaining his breath, and then picked up the ball. I was settled in my mind now: I'd wait for a straight one and miss it, and let myself be bowled out.
Would you believe it, his next three balls were as squint as a Jew's conscience? He was dead beat with running, labouring like a cow in milk, and couldn't keep direction at all. I let 'em go by, while the crowd groaned in disappointment, and when his next one looked like going wide altogether I had to play at it, like it or not; I scrambled across, trying desperately to pull it in his direction, muttering to myself: "If you can't bowl me, for Christ's sake catch me out, you ham-fisted buttock," and in my panic I stumbled, took a frantic swipe - and drove the confounded ball miles over his head, high into the air. He turned and raced to get under it, and there was nothing I could do but leg it for the other end, praying to God he'd catch it. It was still in the air when I reached the bowler's crease and turned, running backwards to watch; he was weaving about beneath it with his mouth open, arms outstretched, while the whole field waited breathless - down it came, down to his waiting hands, he clutched at it, held it, stumbled, fumbled - and to my horror and a great shriek from the mob, it bounced free - he made a despairing grab, measured his length on the turf, and there was the bloody ball rolling across the grass away from him.
"You - oh, you butter-fingered b d!" I roared, but it was lost in the tumult. I had regained my crease having scored one - but I was bound to try for the second, winning run with Solomon prostrate and the ball ten yards from him. "Run!" they were yelling, "run, Flashy!" and poor despairing Flashy couldn't do anything else but obey - the match was in my grasp, and with hundreds watching I couldn't be seen deliberately ignoring the chance to win it.
So I bounded forward again, full of sham eagerness, tripping artistically to give him a chance to reach the ball and run me out; I went down, rolling, and damme, the brute was still grovelling after his dropped catch. I couldn't lie there forever, so I went plunging on, as slowly as possible, like a man exhausted; even so, I had reached the bowler's crease before he'd recovered the ball, and now his only chance was to shy the thing a full thirty yards and hit my wicket as I careered back to the batter's end. I knew he hadn't a hope in hell, at that distance; all I could do was forge ahead to victory - and ruin at the hands of Tighe. The crowd were literally dancing as I bore down on the crease - three more strides would see me home and doomed - and then the ground rose up very gently in front of me, crowd and wicket vanished from view, the noise died away into a soothing murmur, and I was nestling comfortably against the turf, chewing placidly at the grass, thinking, this is just the thing, a nice, peaceful rest, how extremely pleasant …
I was staring up at the sky, with Felix in between, peering down anxiously, and behind him Mynn's beefy face saying: "Get his head up - give him air. Here, a drink"— and a glass rattling against my teeth and the burning taste of brandy in my mouth. There was the deuce of a pain in the back of my head, and more anxious faces, and I heard Elspeth's voice in distant, shrill inquiry, amidst a babble of chatter.
"What - what happened?" says I, as they raised me; my legs were like jelly, and Mynn had to hold me up.
"It's all right!" cries Felix. "He tried to shy down your wicket - and the ball hit you crack on the back of the skull. Why, you went down like a shot rabbit!"
"He threw down your wicket, too - afterwards," says Mynn. "Damn him."
I blinked and touched my head; there was a lump growing like a football. Then here was Solomon, panting like a bellows, clasping my hand and crying: "My dear Harry - are you all right? My poor chap - let me see!" He was volleying out apologies, and Mynn was looking at him pretty cool, I noticed, while Felix fidgeted and the assembling mob were gaping at the sensation.
"You mean - I was out?" says I, trying to collect my wits.
"I'm afraid so!" cries Solomon. "You see, I was so confused, when I shied the ball, I didn't realize it had hit you … saw you lying there, and the ball loose … well, in my excitement I just ran in and snatched it … and broke your wicket. I'm sorry," he repeated, "for of course I'd never have taken advantage … if I'd had time to think. It all happened so quickly, you see." He looked round at the others, smiling whimsically. "Why - it was just like our accident in the first innings - when Flashy put me out."
At that the chatter broke out, and then Elspeth was all over me, exclaiming about my poor head, and calling for salts and hartshorn. I quieted her while I regained my wits and listened to the debate: Mynn was maintaining stoutly that it wasn't fair, running a chap out when he was half-stunned, and Felix said, well, according to the rules, I was fairly out, and anyway, the same sort of thing had happened in Solomon's first hand, which was extra-ordinary, when he came to think of it - Mynn said that was different, because I hadn't realized Solomon was crocked, and Felix said, ah well, that was the point, but Solomon hadn't realized I was crocked, either, and Mynn muttered, didn't he, by George, and if that was the way they played at Eton, he didn't think much of it …
"But … who has won?" demanded Elspeth.
"No one," says Felix. "It's a tie. Flashy ran one run, which made the scores level at 31, and was run out before he could finish the second. So the game's drawn."
"And if you remember," says Solomon - and although his smile was as bland as ever, he couldn't keep the triumphant gleam out of his eye —"you gave me the tie, which means"— and he bowed to Elspeth —"that I shall have the joy of welcoming you, my dear Diana, and your father, aboard my vessel for our cruise. I'm truly sorry our game ended as it did, old chap - but I feel entitled to claim my wager."