‘Fair lob,’ repeated the thrower’s partner, a small man in his sixties, who was better at standing the skittles up than knocking them down.
‘The lob was fair, yes, but it only accounted for one of the pins. The other doesn’t count.’
‘It does, Carter,’ said the big man, petulantly. ‘The first pin rebounded on to the platform and knocked the other bugger off.’
Cribb got to his feet. ‘Possibly I can render some assistance, gentlemen, as a detached observer, who knows something about the game. That is, if you would like an adjudicator.’
‘Most civil of you,’ said Carter thankfully. ‘What do you say, gentlemen?’
Holloway and his partner exchanged dubious glances.
‘For Heaven’s sake! This afternoon we’re timekeepers and judges ourselves,’ said Carter. ‘Surely we are willing to submit to the decisions of a referee in our own competition?’
Cribb was appointed by a consensus of nods and mutterings.
‘And we’ll stand you a drink at the end,’ Carter bounteously suggested. ‘Now, sir. We await your arbitration over the matter of the last throw. Were both pins fairly knocked down, in your judgement, or was there an infringement of the regulations?’
Holloway stood hugely among the fallen skittles with his thumbs hitched in his waistcoat, awaiting the verdict. Everyone looked expectantly towards Cribb.
A contingency he was quite prepared for. ‘Before I settle the question, gentlemen, I must ask you, as your referee, whose set of rules you favour, Cassell’s or Bohn’s. On Cassell’s authority, the final knockdown would be regarded as a foul, whereas Bohn would undeniably allow it. In the circumstances,’ he went on, without pause, ‘I propose that you commence a fresh game under my authority. The rules are as practised in the Ratcatcher in Victoria Street, namely three sets of three throws for each player, no follow-throughs across the line, all knockdowns to count, except those perpetrated by a cheese or skittle after it has left the frame, and all the pins to be reset if anyone succeeds in flooring them with his first or second lob.’
To have continued arguing about the last skittle after such a categorical exposition of the rules would have done no credit to anyone. Honour satisfied, the game commenced in earnest, Cribb first casually removing his morning-coat and hooking it on the hatstand next to the one he had already marked as Carter’s. Things were happening as well as he could wish.
Victory went to Holloway and his partner by 42 points to 37. ‘Time for another game?’ asked Cribb, as he wiped the blackboard clear. ‘You’re officiating at the sports this afternoon like me, I gather. When do we report, do you remember?’
‘By ten minutes past two,’ said Carter, consulting his watch. ‘Yes, there’s time. Set them up, Holloway, and I’ll fetch a drink for our referee. We’re on beer, sir. Will that do? We’re all still drinking, I take it?’ He moved to the bar.
‘Damned chalk,’ Cribb remarked to Holloway’s partner. ‘Gets all over your clothes if you ain’t careful.’ He showed him a set of dusty fingers and crossed towards the hatstand. There, he sedulously smeared chalk around his jacket pocket as he felt for a handkerchief with his right hand. His left, still scrupulously free of dust, simultaneously transplanted a large rosette with the word Official on it from Carter’s lapel to his own.
He returned to the blackboard, rubbing both hands with his handkerchief. Carter arrived with a tray of drinks, and the skittles restarted. This time the result was reversed. Holloway’s partner was quite unable any longer to pitch with sufficient force to disturb the pins.
‘That’s it, gentlemen,’ Cribb announced. ‘Thirty-eight points wins. All square, and no time for a decider. We shall have to be reporting.’ He walked to the hatstand and removed the jacket with the rosette. ‘Yours, I think, Mr Carter.’
Carter put it on and immediately sensed something wrong. He patted the pockets and looked at the lining. ‘I don’t think it is mine. Look, here’s some chalkmarks by the pocket. Must be yours, sir.’
‘I do believe it is,’ said Cribb, waiting in his shirtsleeves. ‘That must be yours on the peg, then. I thought you said you were an official. Don’t you have a rosette like the rest of us?’
Ten minutes after, he was marching across the centre of the Lillie Bridge arena, Carter’s rosette still prominently displayed on his chest. Any stirrings of conscience he may have had about the acquisition were stilled by the certainty that Carter sans rosette would gain admission to the ground. They had all promised to stand by the poor fellow at the entrance for officials and competitors, before Cribb had felt obliged to go on ahead, since he was sure to be required for the hammer throw. As he pointed out, it was always the first event on the programme.
For a mecca of healthful competition, Lillie Bridge was oddly situated, wedged between a railway marshalling yard and a fever hospital. The turf itself was overlain with a thin coat of soot. The track, of black cinders, and the several hundred silent, dark-suited, bowler-hatted spectators on the terracing, completed a distinctly sombre panorama. A hearse would not have looked out of place there.
The hammer-circle, in the interests of public safety, was sited on the side of the ground farthest from the stand where the spectators were gathered. The arrangement suited Cribb. Three hammer throwers were flexing themselves nearby, but for the present he concentrated on the two officials standing by the circle in conversation. Their reception of him was critical to the outcome of the afternoon.
They turned on hearing his approach, both barrel-shaped figures of no great height, with decidedly bad-tempered expressions on their faces. He was reminded of Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
‘What part do you propose to play in this pantomime?’ said the first.
‘This is the hammer throw, is it not?’ said Cribb. The safest answer to a question like that was another question.
‘If it isn’t, this is a damned peculiar place to stand every Saturday,’ said the second. ‘I don’t know why you’re here. The two of us have managed tolerably well for the past three seasons without assistance.’
Regulars-what wretched luck! On an inspiration Cribb answered, ‘It must be on account of our Transatlantic Cousins. They have difficulty in understanding our rules for hammer-throwing, I believe.’
‘So do I, by George,’ said the first. ‘The rules are changing all the time. Wasn’t more than four years ago we allowed ’em unlimited runs. They started over there somewhere and came spinning past here like teetotums. It was in the lap of the gods which got thrown farther, the hammer or the man. More than one of the crowd got picked off by badly aimed hammers, too. Serve ’em right-they only came to watch because it was comical. You don’t get that class of person now that it’s all done from seven-foot circles. There’s still an element of danger, mind. Where did you intend to stand?’
‘I thought I might make myself useful by retrieving the hammers,’ said Cribb. That would put him in the front line, but it promised to be less suicidal than standing by the circle to check the movements of the throwers’ feet.
‘Very well. Keep your wits about you, though. This isn’t cricket, you know. There’s no credit given for catching them before they land.’
Cribb formed his mouth into the token of a smile and started watchfully along the margin of the throwing area. He was determined not to take his eyes off the hammer-circle so long as he was within range. The throwers were practising their turns, keeping a firm grip on their hammers and rotating like whirling Dervishes.
He took up a stance on the bicycle track, in line with the second official, who positioned himself rashly in the very centre of the arena. Presently there was a shrill whistle-blast from the first, a vigorous brandishing of a Union Jack, and one of the throwers stepped into the circle, spat into the palm of each hand, swung the hammer several times through an axis above his head, brought it lower, turned his body with it and let go.