“Oh, I saw it all right,” said the old gentleman, with a chuckle.
“I put it to you,” said Mr. Hankin, “whether I was l.b.w. or not.”
“Of course not,” said Mr. Brotherhood. “Nobody ever is. I have attended cricket matches now for sixty years, for sixty years, my dear sir, and that goes back to a time before you were born or thought of, and I’ve never yet known anybody to be really out l.b.w.-according to himself, that is.” He chuckled again. “I remember in 1892…”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Hankin, “I must defer to your experienced judgment. I think I will have a pipe.” He wandered away and sat down by Mr. Pym.
“Poor old Brotherhood,” he said, “is getting very old and doddery. Very doddery indeed. I doubt if we shall see him here another year. That was a very unfortunate decision of Grimbold’s. Of course it is easy to be deceived in these matters, but you could see for yourself that I was no more l.b.w. than he was himself. Very vexing, when I had just settled down nicely.”
“Shocking luck,” agreed Mr. Pym, cheerfully. “There’s Ingleby going in. I always like to watch him. He puts up a very good show, doesn’t he, as a rule?”
“No style,” said Mr. Hankin, morosely.
“Hasn’t he?” said Mr. Pym, placidly. “You know best about that, Hankin. But he always hits out. I like to see a batsman hitting out, you know. There! Good shot! Good shot! Oh, dear!”
For Mr. Ingleby, hitting out a little too vigorously, was caught at cover-point and came galloping out rather faster than he had gone in.
“Quack, quack,” said Mr. Bredon.
Mr. Ingleby threw his bat at Mr. Bredon, and Mr. Tallboy, hurriedly muttering, “Bad luck!” went to take his place.
“What a nuisance,” said Miss Rossiter, soothingly. “I think it was very brave of you to hit it at all. It was a frightfully fast one.”
“Um!” said Mr. Ingleby.
The dismissal of Mr. Ingleby had been the redoubtable Simmonds’ swan-song. Having exhausted himself by his own ferocity, he lost his pace and became more erratic than usual, and was taken off, after an expensive over, in favour of a gentleman who bowled leg-breaks. To him, Mr. Barrow fell a victim, and retired covered with glory, with a score of twenty-seven. His place was taken by Mr. Pinchley, who departed, waving a jubilant hand and declaring his intention of whacking hell out of them.
Mr. Pinchley indulged in no antics of crease-patting or taking middle. He strode vigorously to his post, raised his bat shoulder-high and stood four-square to whatever it might please Heaven to send him. Four times did he loft the ball sky-high to the boundary. Then he fell into the hands of the Philistine with the leg-break and lofted the ball into the greedy hands of the wicket-keeper.
“Short and sweet,” said Mr. Pinchley, returning with his ruddy face all grins.
“Four fours are very useful,” said Mr. Bredon, kindly.
“Well, that’s what I say,” said Mr. Pinchley. “Make ’em quick and keep things going, that’s my idea of cricket. I can’t stand all this pottering and poking about.”
This observation was directed at Mr. Miller, whose cricket was of the painstaking sort. A tedious period followed, during which the score slowly mounted to 83, when Mr. Tallboy, stepping back a little inconsiderately to a full-pitch, slipped on the dry turf and sat down on his wicket.
Within the next five minutes Mr. Miller, lumbering heavily down the pitch in gallant response to an impossible call by Mr. Beeseley, was run out, after compiling a laborious 12. Mr. Bredon, pacing serenely to the wicket, took counsel with himself. He reminded himself that he was still, in the eyes of Pym’s and Brotherhood’s at any rate, Mr. Death Bredon of Pym’s. A quiet and unobtrusive mediocrity, he decided, must be his aim. Nothing that could recall the Peter Wimsey of twenty years back, making two centuries in successive innings for Oxford. No fancy cuts. Nothing remarkable. On the other hand, he had claimed to be a cricketer. He must not make a public exhibition of incompetence. He decided to make twenty runs, not more and, if possible, not less.
He might have made his mind easy; the opportunity was not vouchsafed him. Before he had collected more than two threes and a couple of demure singles, Mr. Beeseley had paid the penalty of rashness and been caught at mid-on. Mr. Haagedorn, with no pretensions to being a batsman, survived one over and was then spread-eagled without remorse or question. Mr. Wedderburn, essaying to cut a twisty one which he would have done well to leave alone, tipped the ball into wicket-keeper’s gloves and Pym’s were disposed of for 99, Mr. Bredon having the satisfaction of carrying out his bat for 14.
“Well played all,” said Mr. Pym. “One or two people had bad luck, but of course, that’s all in the game. We must try and do better after lunch.”
“There’s one thing,” observed Mr. Armstrong, confidently to Mr. Miller, “they always do one very well. Best part of the day, to my thinking.” Mr. Ingleby made much the same remark to Mr. Bredon.
“By the way,” he added, “Tallboy’s looking pretty rotten.”
“Yes, and he’s got a flask with him,” put in Mr. Garrett, who sat beside them.
“He’s all right,” said Ingleby. “I will say for Tallboy, he can carry his load. He’s much better off with a flask than with this foul Sparkling Pompayne. All wind. For God’s sake, you fellows, leave it alone.”
“Something’s making Tallboy bad-tempered, though,” said Garrett. “I don’t understand him; he seems to have gone all to pieces lately, ever since that imbecile row with Copley.”
Mr. Bredon said nothing to all this. His mind was not easy. He felt as though thunder was piling up somewhere and was not quite sure whether he was fated to feel or to ride the storm. He turned to Simmonds the demon bowler, who was seated on his left, and plunged into cricket talk.
“What’s the matter with our Miss Meteyard today?” inquired Mrs. Johnson, archly, across the visitors’ table. “You’re very silent.”
“I’ve got a headache. It’s very hot. I think it’s going to thunder.”
“Surely not,” said Miss Parton. “It’s a beautiful clear day.”
“I believe,” asserted Mrs. Johnson, following Miss Meteyard’s gloomy gaze, “I believe she’s more interested in the other table. Now, Miss Meteyard, confess, who is it? Mr. Ingleby? I hope it’s not my favourite Mr. Bredon. I simply can’t have anybody coming between us, you know.”
The joke about Mr. Bredon’s reputed passion for Mrs. Johnson had become a little stale, and Miss Meteyard received it coldly.
“She’s offended,” declared Mrs. Johnson. “I believe it is Mr. Bredon. She’s blushing! When are we to offer our congratulations, Miss Meteyard?”
“Do you,” demanded Miss Meteyard, in a suddenly harsh and resonant voice, “recollect the old lady’s advice to the bright young man?”
“Why, I can’t say that I do. What was it?”
“Some people can be funny without being vulgar, and some can be both funny and vulgar. I should recommend you to be either the one or the other.”
“Oh, really?” said Mrs. Johnson, vaguely. After a moment’s reflection she gathered the sense of the ancient gibe and said, “Oh, really!” again, with a heightened colour. “Dear me, how rude we can be when we try. I do hate a person who can’t take a joke.”
Brotherhood’s second innings brought some balm to the feelings of the Pymmites. Whether it was the Sparkling Pompayne, or whether it was the heat (“I do believe you were right about the thunder,” remarked Miss Parton), more than one of their batsmen found his eye a little out and his energy less than it had been. Only one man ever looked really dangerous, and this was a tall, dour-faced person with whipcord wrists and a Yorkshire accent, whom no bowling seemed to daunt, and who had a nasty knack of driving extremely hard through gaps in the field. This infuriating man settled down grimly and knocked up a score of fifty-eight, amid the frenzied applause of his side. It was not only his actual score that was formidable, but the extreme exhaustion induced in the field.