The match began at ten-thirty. We had first knock and made one hundred and five, of which I contributed thirty and the vicar a snappy twenty-seven. As at the last moment Bob Candy had refused to play, and, as we simply had not another male in the village who could hold a bat, so to speak, we consulted with the rival captain, a large, red fellow called Mogston, and decided to play Daphne, who added a beautiful twenty-six to the score and then touched a fast one and point held it.
It was turned two o’clock by the time our innings was over, so we adjourned for an hour and left Much Hartley just three hours in which to beat us.
“We must get them out,” said the vicar. Old Brown, the constable, bowling slows, opened at the pavilion end, and I took the other. We had altered the field a bit to give Daphne the job of wicket-keeper, for she could get old Brown’s slows all right, and was thoroughly accustomed to my bowling, of course. We were lucky from the outset —so lucky that I might have known something was going to happen. Their captain, a left-handed bloke, carted old Brown’s first ball clean over my head into the road, and his second, curiously enough, into mid-off’s hands. Bob Candy at mid-off would have dropped it as sure as eggs, but this mid-off, sometimes called William Coutts, stuck to it and shrieked his appeal. The umpire, Sir William, of course, woke up, started visibly, and gave the man out. The next bloke played out the over very cautiously. Then Daphne, the peach, picked my first ball off the bat, and their second man retired to the pavilion. Suffice it to say that we dismissed Much Hartley for seventy-nine runs in two and three-quarter hours.
Daphne and I made tracks for the vicarage, William made a bee-line for the fête, and the vicar stayed to give the visiting team their tea. The squire sheered off home for his tea, promising to return and help with the sports finals.
“Funny about Bob Candy,” said Daphne, as I sat on the edge of my bed while she sewed me into my fortune-teller’s skirt in order that no risks might be run of my coming apart in the excitement of the job. “He’s so keen on cricket.”
I hadn’t time to talk about Bob Candy. To tell the truth, now that this fortune-telling stunt had come to fruition, I had the most fearful wind up. Besides, I had been in the open air for more than eight hours, all told, and I was tired and sleepy. However, the ghastly business had to be gone through with, so, putting my coat on over the get-up, and cramming the fortune-teller’s beard, hair and hat into a small gladstone, I set out for the fête. I was lucky enough to get into the tent without attracting much notice. William, whose job it was to stand outside the tent and blow his scout’s bugle until a crowd collected, was already on the scene. He stuck his head inside the opening of the tent.
“The cocoanut-shy is doing fine, Noel,” he said. “Mr. Burt is the very chap for the job, and old Frothblower is backing him up like a good ’un. How do you feel?”
“Rotten,” I replied, getting out the appurtenances and sticking them on. “How do I look?”
“All right. Shall I start playing now?”
“I suppose so,” I said. The little tent contained a small table and two chairs. Two candles, which I had lighted before I donned the hair, beard and hat of the fortune-teller, stood in saucers on the table. A skull, made of white calico and stitched on to a piece of black casement cloth, showed up rather eerily just beside me. William set his bugle to his lips and began to blow.
I suppose I put up a pretty good show, really, take it all in all. Of course, I got on better with our own village people than with the strangers, because I knew more about them. For the look of the thing, and so as not to give the show away, Daphne came in and had hers done. She murmured, as I bent over her hand:
“Nearly through, darling! Stick it! They are going to start the dancing in a minute. The Adj. has already gone into hiding, I expect. I haven’t seen her about lately. I shall go home as soon as you’ve finished, I think. I’m awfully tired. We’ve to take William with us. Them’s her orders. He won’t half be sick, poor kid.”
“How’s Burt got on?” I murmured.
“O.K. Also A.1. I like them, Noel. She may be a dreadful woman, though I wouldn’t take the Adjutant’s word for it, but she’s got an awfully kind heart. Did you know uncle has had an awful row with Sir William over the children’s sports? Seems silly, doesn’t it, but they say it was awful. All about nothing, too. You know those boys uncle turned out of the choir? They claimed the right to run in the choirboys’ hundred, because they had put their names down before they were chucked out, and Uncle wouldn’t have it at any price. Unfortunately, they had already run in their heats, while uncle was playing in the cricket match this morning, and both had qualified for the final. The rotten part of it was that Sir William upheld the boys. Uncle was furious, but he kept his temper. Sir William lost his, and called uncle a something parson in front of all the village people, so uncle punched him in the eye and there was the most frightful schemozzle. Uncle stuck to his point, though, and the whole race was abandoned. Sir William has gone off in the most terrible rage, and his eye is swelling up already. Isn’t it a rotten, beastly thing to have happened?”
I agreed, and was about to enter into the thing more deeply when the flap of the tent was pushed aside and young William came butting in.
“Noel! Noel!” he said, “Aunt Caroline’s here and she wants you at once. Uncle hasn’t been home yet, and it’s nearly ten o’clock, and she’s heard about the row he had with Sir William, and she says you know what Sir William’s temper is, and she’s worried to death. I say, she is in a stew, so do buck up, there’s a good chap!”
I did know what the Squire’s temper was. Hadn’t I seen him trying to throttle the financier, Burns, merely for treading on the dog? What would he not do in return for a punch in the eye in front of all the village! I pulled off hat, hair and beard, put on my overcoat, blew out the candles, and, followed by Daphne, I tore out of the tent, and, together with William, we hastened to the vicarage.
Mrs. Coutts was not having hysterics, of course. She was not the type for that. But she did look fearfully white and groggy. I volunteered to go and find Sir William and see what he could tell us of the vicar’s movements after he had left the fête. Daphne volunteered to come too, but, much as I would have liked her company, I thought somebody ought to stay with Mrs. Coutts. I wouldn’t have William, either, because I knew that his aunt would worry all the time he was out. Off I went, alone, therefore, to the Manor House, to see what was what. They were all in bed except Mrs. Bradley. The servants were all at the fête, so she came to the front door and let me in. From the park, through which I had just walked, came the sound of the brass band playing for the dancing. I entered the Manor House and followed Mrs. Bradley to the library, where there was a small but cheerful fire. She invited me to sit down and then she asked whether she had to cross my palm with silver. It says something for my state of mind that I had completely forgotten my gipsy costume. My overcoat had fallen away and disclosed a bright red skirt to her somewhat hawk-like gaze. I frowned and shook my head.