"Pip" Part 11

Martin now resumed at his end. Evans, who had been a horrified and helpless spectator of his companions' downfall, played him in a cautious manner, as became the occasion, intending to sneak a run at the end of the over and so face the redoubtable Pip himself. But it was not to be. In his anxiety to obtain the necessary run he attempted to hit a ball which he knew should have been let alone, and was caught at cover-point. Five for forty-nine.

Once more it was Pip's turn. He found himself confronted by another hard slogger, who, instead of sticking to his last, trusting to his eye, and running out to hit, stood stock-still, and having solemnly planted his bat in what he imagined was the path of the ball, awaited developments.

The ball, curling like a boomerang, pitched slightly to leg, broke back, and bowled him. Six for forty-nine.

The frenzy of the Hivites was becoming almost monotonous, and it was hardly capable of augmentation when Pip bowled another man with his next ball, bringing his a.n.a.lysis up to five wickets for no runs.

"The match is over," said Uncle Bill; "but it will be interesting to see if he keeps it up to the end."

"'Not for compet.i.tion, but for exhibition only'--now," murmured Hanbury dreamily.

The next man held his bat firmly in the block-hole, as the best means of combating the third ball of the over,--the fast yorker,--and with the a.s.sistance of short-slip, who received the ball in the pit of his stomach and incontinently dropped it, disappointed the entire field, friend and foe alike, by spoiling Pip's hat-trick. The batsman, a person of unorthodox style, having succeeded in despatching a yorker to slip, decided that the best place for a good length ball would be long-leg. He accordingly stepped in front of his wicket for the purpose of carrying his intention into effect; but the ball, much to his surprise and indignation, evaded the all-embracing sweep of bat and hit him hard on both shins, with the result that he was very properly given out leg-before-wicket.

The spectators now realised that the match was as good as over; but curiosity to see how much longer Pip would continue his extraordinary entertainment glued them to the spot. Pip himself had lost all consciousness of the presence of others. All his little soul was concentrated on one idea--to get the last two wickets with the two b.a.l.l.s remaining to him.

The last batsman but one took his place, and Pip bowled his slow ball.

The batsman watched it as he had been told to do, and decided in a weak moment that it was going to be a good length ball on the off. This being the case, he proposed to make use of his only stroke, a rather elaborate flourish, which, if it could be engineered at precisely the right moment, occasionally came off as a late cut. The one error into which this lightning calculator fell was the belief that the ball would pitch off the wicket. It pitched absolutely straight, got up remarkably quickly, and, almost before the flourish was half over, bowled him. Nine for forty-nine.

The last man walked out slowly, but he had reached the wicket before Pip noticed him. For Pip was plunged in thought: he had once more arrived at the last ball of the over, the ball that he was to bowl in any way he pleased. A good deal--nay, everything--depended upon it. He was determined to bowl no more full-pitches to leg. A yorker, if straight, would almost certainly settle the fate of this last trembling creature; but then yorkers are not always straight. A good length ball, on the other hand, would probably be blocked.

"Man in," said the umpire, and suddenly Pip made up his mind.

"His sixth ball!" remarked Uncle Bill under the trees. "What will it be this time, I wonder?"

"If he wants to do the hat-trick," said Hanbury, "he must take some risks. No good giving this fellow a length ball. He'll only block it.

Pip'll have to tempt him."

And that is what Pip did. He bowled a very short ball, a very bad ball, a long-hop unspeakable, on the off side. Now, the batsman was expecting a good ball, and was prepared to present to it an immovable bat. But this thing, this despicable object which lobbed up so temptingly, ought he to spare it? "Take no risks," Hewett had said; but then Hewett was not expecting this demon bowler to send down tosh like this. Should he?

Could he? Yes--no--yes! He raised his bat uncertainly, and made a half-hearted pull at the ball. It struck his bat somewhere on the splice,--the curl in the air had deceived one more victim,--flew up into the air, and, when it descended, found Pip waiting for it with a pair of hands that would at that moment have gripped a red-hot cannonball.

So the innings ended for forty-nine, and the Hivites won by seventy-one runs. In two overs Pip had taken eight wickets (doing the hat-trick incidentally) for no runs. Verily, in a house-match all things are possible. He never accomplished such a feat again, though his seven wickets for seven runs against the Australians ten years later, and his four wickets in four b.a.l.l.s, on that historic occasion when the Gentlemen beat the Players by an innings, were relatively far greater performances.

He turned mechanically to the umpire and took his cap, and was in the act of unrolling his sleeves, when he was suddenly caught up, whirled aloft, and carried off towards the pavilion by a seething wave of frenzied Hivites. Those enthusiasts who were debarred from supporting any portion of him contented themselves with slapping outlying parts of his person and uttering discordant whoops.

Somewhere beneath his left arm-pit Pip discovered the inflamed countenance of Master Mumford.

"Where's young Simpson?" he screamed in that worthy's ear, not so much because he wished to know as to relieve the extreme tension of the situation.

It was a senseless and inappropriate question, but it appeared to bring Mumford's cup of happiness to overflowing point. Laying his uncombed head upon Pip's horizontal stomach, with tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, he gasped,--

"H-he went down to the house to g-get his k-kodak as soon as y-you were put on bowling, so as to phuph-photograph the winning hit. And oh, he s-said they would w-win by nine wickets! He h-hasn't got back yet."

But he was wrong. There stood Master Simpson, ready to photograph the winning hit. But, like the Briton and the sportsman that he was, he made the best of a bad job and photographed Pip instead. And an enlarged copy of that snapshot hangs in Pip's smoking-room to-day, to witness if I lie.

CHAPTER V

LINKLATER

I

LINKLATER came to school after Pip,--one year, to be precise,--but by the time that both had attained to the dignity of seniors they were firm friends. They were a curiously a.s.sorted couple. Pip at the age of eighteen was as inscrutable and reserved as ever, though his popularity with the school was unbounded, and his influence, when he chose to exert it, enormous. He had already been a member of the Eleven for three years, and should by rights this year have been captain. But alas!

though Pip had been duly washed by the high tides of promiscuous September promotions out of the all-glorious Lower Sh.e.l.l into the Upper Sh.e.l.l, and from the Upper Sh.e.l.l by the next inundation into the Fifth, he had not as yet qualified for a Monitorship.

Linklater was a handsome, breezy, rather boisterous youth, quick of tongue and limber of limb. He possessed his fair share of brains, but not the corresponding inclination to use them; and he was a natural athlete of the most attractive type,--a graceful mover, a pretty bat, and a beautiful racquets player. But somehow he was not universally popular. Everybody was his friend, it is true, but that was chiefly because n.o.body cares to be the avowed antagonist of a man who possesses a sharp tongue and no scruples about using it, especially when these gifts are backed by such undoubted a.s.sets as membership of the Fifteen and Eleven. There was something not quite right about Linklater. Perhaps he was too grownup in his manners. He was popular, too, with masters, which is not invariably a good sign in a boy.

Still, he was not quite so grownup at eighteen as when he first came to Grandwich; and thereby hangs a tale.

At every public school there are certain things--each school has its own list--which are "not done." Not done, that is, until one has achieved fame,--until one is a "blood," or a "dook," or a "bug" (or whatever they call it at your school, sir); until a boy has fought his way into that aristocracy--the most exclusive aristocracy in the world--in which brains, as such, count for nothing, birth has no part, and wealth is simply disregarded; where genuine ability occasionally gains a precarious footing, and then only by disguising itself as something else; but to which muscle, swiftness of foot, and general ability to manipulate a ball with greater dexterity than one's neighbour is received unquestioningly, joyfully, proudly. Dear old gentlemen, who are brought down to distribute the prizes after lunch on Speech Day, invariably point to Simpkins major, who has obtained a prize for Greek Iambics and another for Latin Prose, as the summit of the scholastic universe; and they beseech Simpkins's "fellow-scholars" not to be down-hearted because they are not like Simpkins. "We do not all get--er--ten talents, boys," observes the old gentleman soothingly, with a half-deferential bob towards the Head, as if to apologise for quoting Scripture before a clerical authority. He next proceeds to hold out strong hopes to his audience that if they work hard they may possibly--who knows?--come some day to resemble Simpkins major. At this all the parents, forgetful of their own youth, applaud, and the "fellow-scholars," about fifty per cent of whom do not know Simpkins by sight, while the remainder seldom meet him in a pa.s.sage without kicking him, grin sheepishly, and take it out of Simpkins afterwards. The real heroes of the school, if only the dear old gentleman would realise, or remember, the fact, are those rather dull-looking youths, with incipient moustaches and large chests, who sit cracking nuts in the back row.

But this is by the way. Let us return to the things which are "not done"

by the proletariat. The following are a few extracts from the unwritten but rigid code of Grandwich:--

1. You must wear your tie in a sailor's knot--not in a bow.

2. A new boy must not speak to any one unless spoken to first.

3. You must _not_ shave until you are in the Fifteen or Eleven; after that you must shave every Sat.u.r.day night, whether you need it or not.

There was a merciful proviso attached to the last remarkable enactment--namely, that all whose growth of hair had outrun their social status might shave to an extent sufficient to make them presentable, provided that the operation did not take place in public. Consequently many undistinguished but hairy persons were compelled to shave in bed at night after the gas was out. I have often wondered what their mothers would have thought if they had known. Fortunately there is much in our lives that our mothers never hear of. If they did, public schools (among many other things) would cease to exist.

Now, Linklater, who, as has been already mentioned, was a precocious youth,--a typical c.o.c.k-of-the-walk from a preparatory school,--spent his first few weeks at Grandwich in running foul of all the most cherished traditions of that historic foundation. He arrived in a neat bowtie, and proceeded to wear the same, despite the pointed criticisms of a mult.i.tude of counsellors, for the s.p.a.ce of a week; at the end of which period it was taken from his neck by a self-appointed committee of the Lower Fourth. Finding that his eccentricities were earning him a certain amount of unpopularity, Linklater decided, like the born opportunist that he was, to allay popular feeling by a timely distribution of largesse. He accordingly paid a visit to the school tuck-shop, where he expended two shillings and sixpence on a.s.sorted confectionery. On his way back he encountered no less a person than Rumsey, the captain of the Eleven, and, feeling that he might as well conciliate all cla.s.ses while he was about it, cried, "Catch, there!" and launched the largest sweet he could find in the bag in the direction of Rumsey. The feelings of that potentate on receiving a _marron glace_ in the middle of his waistcoat from a diminutive f.a.g deprived him for the moment of all power to move or speak, so that the unconscious Linklater, pa.s.sing on unscathed, lived to tell the tale, and subsequently to hear it told and retold by hysterical _raconteurs_ to delighted audiences for months afterwards.

"Heard the latest about that new bloke?" inquired Master Mumford of Pip one evening, under cover of the continuous hum of conversation which always characterised "prep" in the Hivite house.

"What new bloke?"

"Linklater. Seen him?"

Yes, Pip had seen him at nets that day, and had noticed that he was a jolly neat bat.

"Notice his boots?" pursued Mumford.

"Can't say I did."

"Well, they were white!"

Master Mumford fairly overflowed with happy laughter at the richness of the jest. The wearing of white buckskin boots was one of the privileges of the First Eleven, and Linklater had run counter to custom and habit again.

"Oh," said Pip, "I suppose he didn't know."

This childishly lenient view of the case did not appeal to Mumford, who, with all the small-minded man's respect for the letter of the law, was thirsting to punish the evildoer.

"Beastly side!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "that's all. We are going to fill them with soap and water after prep, and put a notice beside them telling him not to stick on so much of it. I'm writing it now. How many _e's_ are there in beastly?"

"Dunno," replied Pip shortly.