“I’ve had-too much-gas,” panted Ingleby, returning past Garret after a mad gallop to the boundary, “and this blighter looks like staying till Christmas.”
“Look here, Tallboy,” said Mr. Bredon, as they crossed at the next over. “Keep your eye on the little fat fellow at the other end. He’s getting pumped. If this Yorkshire tyke works him like this, something will happen.”
It did happen in the next over. The slogger smote a vigorous ball from the factory end, a little too high for a safe boundary, but an almost certain three. He galloped and the fat man galloped. The ball was racing over the grass, and Tallboy racing to intercept it, as they galloped back.
“Come on!” cried the Yorkshireman, already half-way down the pitch for the third time. But Fatty was winded; a glance behind showed him Tallboy stooping to the ball. He gasped “No!” and abode, like Dan, in his breaches. The other saw what was happening and turned in his tracks. Tallboy, disregarding the frantic signals of Haagedorn and Garrett, became inspired. He threw from where he stood, not to Garrett, but point-blank at the open wicket. The ball sang through the air and spread-eagled the Yorkshireman’s stumps while he was still a yard from the crease, while the batsman, making a frantic attempt to cover himself, flung his bat from his hand and fell prostrate.
“Oh, pretty!” exulted old Mr. Brotherhood. “Oh, well played, sir, well played!”
“He must have taken marvellous aim,” said Miss Parton.
“What’s the matter with you, Bredon?” asked Ingleby, as the team lolled thankfully on the pitch to await the next man in. “You’re looking very white. Touch of the sun?”
“Too much light in my eyes,” said Mr. Bredon.
“Well, take it easy,” advised Mr. Ingleby. “We shan’t have much trouble with them now. Tallboy’s a hero. Good luck to him.”
Mr. Bredon experienced a slight qualm of nausea.
The remainder of the Brotherhood combination achieved nothing very remarkable, and the side was eventually got out for 114. at 4 o’clock, on a fiery wicket, Mr. Tallboy again sent out his batsmen, faced with the formidable task of making 171 to win.
At 5.30, the thing still looked almost feasible, four wickets having fallen for 79. Then Mr. Tallboy, endeavouring to squeeze a run where there was no run to be got, was run out for 7, and immediately afterwards, the brawny Mr. Pinchley, disregarding his captain’s frantic appeals for care, chopped his first ball neatly into the hands of point. The rot had set in. Mr. Miller, having conscientiously blocked through two overs, while Mr. Beeseley added a hard-won 6 to the score, lost his off stump to the gentleman with the leg-break. With the score at 92 by the addition of a couple of byes, and three men to bat, including the well-meaning but inadequate Mr. Haagedorn, defeat appeared to be unavoidable.
“Well,” said Mr. Copley morosely, “it’s better than last year. They beat us then by about seven wickets. Am I right, Mr. Tallboy?”
“No,” said Mr. Tallboy.
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” said Mr. Copley, “perhaps it was a year before. You should know, for I believe you were the captain on both occasions.”
Mr. Tallboy vouchsafed no statistics, merely saying to Mr. Bredon:
“They draw stumps at 6.30; try and stick it out till then if you can.”
Mr. Bredon nodded. The advice suited him excellently. A nice, quiet, defensive game was exactly the game least characteristic of Peter Wimsey. He sauntered tediously to the crease, expended some valuable moments in arranging himself, and faced the bowling with an expression of bland expectation.
All would probably have gone according to calculation, but for the circumstance that the bowler at the garden end of the field was a man with an idiosyncrasy. He started his run from a point in the dim, blue distance, accelerated furiously to within a yard of the wicket, stopped, hopped, and with an action suggestive of a Catherine-wheel, delivered a medium-length, medium-paced, sound straight ball of uninspired but irreproachable accuracy. In executing this manoeuvre for the twenty-second time, his foot slipped round about the stop-and-hop period, he staggered, performed a sort of splits and rose, limping and massaging his leg. As a result, he was taken off, and in his place Simmonds, the fast bowler, was put on.
The pitch was by this time not only fast, but bumpy. Mr. Simmonds’ third delivery rose wickedly from a patch of bare earth and smote Mr. Bredon violently upon the elbow.
Nothing makes a man see red like a sharp rap over the funny-bone, and it was at this moment that Mr. Death Bredon suddenly and regrettably forgot himself. He forgot his caution and his role, and Mr. Miller’s braces, and saw only the green turf and the Oval on a sunny day and the squat majesty of the gas-works. The next ball was another of Simmonds’ murderous short-pitched bumpers, and Lord Peter Wimsey, opening up wrathful shoulders, strode out of his crease like the spirit of vengeance and whacked it to the wide. The next he clouted to leg for three, nearly braining square-leg and so flummoxing deep-field that he flung it back wildly to the wrong end, giving the Pymmites a fourth for an overthrow. Mr. Simmonds’ last ball he treated with the contempt it deserved, snicking it as it whizzed past half a yard wide to leg and running a single.
He was now faced by the merchant with the off-break. The first two balls he treated carefully, then drove the third over the boundary for six. The fourth rose awkwardly and he killed it dead, but the fifth and sixth followed number three. A shout went up, headed by a shrill shriek of admiration from Miss Parton. Lord Peter grinned amiably and settled down to hit the bowling all round the wicket.
As Mr. Haagedorn panted in full career down the pitch, his lips moved in prayer, “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord! don’t let me make a fool of myself!” A four was signalled and the field crossed over. He planted his bat grimly, determined to defend his wicket if he died for it. The ball came, pitched, rose, and he hammered it down remorselessly. One. If only he could stick out the other five. He dealt with another the same way. A measure of confidence came to him. He pulled the third ball round to leg and, to his own surprise, found himself running. As the batsmen passed in mid-career, he heard his colleague calclass="underline" “Good man! Leave ’em to me now.”
Mr. Haagedorn asked nothing better. He would run till he burst, or stand still till he hardened into marble, if only he could keep this miracle from coming to an end. He was a poor bat, but a cricketer. Wimsey ended the over with a well-placed three, which left him still in possession of the bowling. He walked down the pitch and Haagedorn came to meet him.
“I’ll take everything I can,” said Wimsey, “but if anything comes to you, block it. Don’t bother about runs. I’ll see to them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Haagedorn, fervently. “I’ll do anything you say. Keep it up, sir, only keep it up.”
“All right,” said Wimsey. “We’ll beat the b-s yet. Don’t be afraid of them. You’re doing exactly right.”
Six balls later, Mr. Simmonds, having been hit to the boundary four times running, was removed, as being too expensive a luxury. He was replaced by a gentleman who was known at Brotherhood’s as “Spinner.” Wimsey received him with enthusiasm, cutting him consistently and successfully to the off, till Brotherhood’s captain moved up his fieldsmen and concentrated them about the off-side of the wicket. Wimsey looked at this grouping with an indulgent smile, and placed the next six balls consistently and successfully to leg. When, in despair, they drew a close net of fielders all round him, he drove everything that was drivable straight down the pitch. The score mounted to 150.