Pip/Chapter 4

made no comment, but requested Pip to bowl again. "A good fast one," he said.

Pip, with the most natural air in the world, obeyed orders. This time he bowled a yorker, somewhere in the direction of the off-stump. Mr. Hanbury did not trouble to play it, but chopped his bat down into the block-hole to stop it. The ball, however, chiefly owing to the fact that it curled some inches in the air, missed his bat and bowled him off his pads.

"One more," said Ham.

Pip, divided between elation at bowling a master and apprehension as to the consequences thereof, delivered his fourth ball—a full pitch to the off this time. Bad ball as it was, the curl in the air was most apparent; but Ham, who took the measure of most bowling after the third ball, stepped across, and, playing apparently about three inches inside it, caught it fairly and sent it flying.

"That will do, thanks," he said. "Now, run off to tea, but drop into my study after prayers for a minute."

Pip made his appearance very promptly after prayers.

Mr. Hanbury, who was smoking and correcting exercises, nodded to a chair, and after a few minutes' silence, broken by sundry grunts and the thud of a merciless blue pencil, put down his work and addressed Pip.

"Now, my man, I want to have a word with you. You are what is known as a natural bowler. Why you didn't find it out for yourself I can't think. Didn't you, in your extreme infancy, often feel an inclination to stir your porridge with your left hand?"

Pip reflected; and sundry nursery incidents, of no previous import, suddenly acquired a new significance in his mind.

"Yes, sir," he said, "I did. But my nur—my people used to tell me not to, and I got out of the way of it, I suppose."

"They always do it," said Ham sympathetically. "Now, listen. A man may be the fastest and straightest bowler in the world, but unless he has pitch he has nothing, nothing, nothing! A straight ball is no good if it is a long hop or a full pitch, and the only way to acquire the art is to practise and practise and practise until you can drop the ball on a threepenny-bit at twenty yards. Now, if I take you for half an hour at a net after tea for the next few weeks, will you agree to do something for me in return?"

Pip agreed, without asking what the conditions might be.

"What I want you to do," said Ham, "is this." He led the way to the bookshelves at the side of the room. "I want you to read some books for me. Any books will do, but you must read something. I should advise you to begin on something easy. Here are three. This one is called 'Treasure Island'; this big one is 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'; and the yellow one is 'Vice Versâ.' (Don't be afraid: it's all English inside.) Which will you have?"

Pip was somewhat dazed by this eccentric man's behaviour, but he had sufficient sense left to choose the smallest of the proffered volumes. Then he said timidly,—

"Would I have any chance of getting into the Junior House Eleven, sir?"

"M' well, perhaps. Now, hook it. After tea to-morrow at my net, mind."

Later in the evening Mr. Hanbury, enjoying the hospitality of Uncle Bill, remarked,—

"I'm sorry the St. Dunstan's match is over for this year."

"Why?" inquired his host.

"Because we could have beaten them. Anyhow, we shall do it next year."

"Why this confidence?"

"Because," said Hanbury, "I propose this day month to introduce to the school the finest bowler that it has seen since old Hewett's time."

Pip stuck to his side of the bargain manfully. He religiously waded through "Treasure Island," marking with a pencil the place when he knocked off work for the day. The fascination of the story affected even his barbaric mind, but the effort of taking it all in more than outweighed the pleasure. "Sherlock Holmes" he voted dull; he made no conjectures as to the solution of each mystery, and consequently the pleasure of anticipating the result was lost to him. "Vice Versâ" pleased him most, though the idea of a girl running at large in a boys' school struck his celibate mind as "utter rot."

But in return for all this aimless drudgery he had the unspeakable joy of bowling to Ham every night for a short time after tea, at a quiet net in a corner of the big field. The term was not nearly half over, and already he could bring the ball down with tolerable certainty somewhere near a postcard laid for him upon the pitch, five times out of seven,—and that, too, without in any way spoiling the curl in the air by which his teacher appeared to set so much store. He was also permitted to bowl one fast ball per over, an indulgence which comforted him mightily; for like every other cricketer who ever lived, he imagined that he was a heaven-sent fast bowler.

To his unutterable disappointment he was not chosen for his Junior House Eleven, though it included such confirmed dotards as Mumford. The truth was that Mr. Hanbury had sent for Marsh, the captain of Pip's house, and asked as a personal favour that Pip might not be put in the team.

"I know these Junior House-Matches," he said. "The boy will either not be put on to bowl at all, or else he will be kept on for forty or fifty overs, tiring himself out and undoing all the work of the past five weeks. Leave him with me for another fortnight, and we'll see. I can't have growing plants strained in any way."

"Is he really good, sir?" said Marsh. "I haven't seen him play for a long time, and then he seemed no better than most of the other kids."

"That was when he was bowling right-handed," said Ham. "Come and see him to-morrow, at my net. Look here, I will make a bargain with you. When is the House-Match proper, the Final, the big affair, between you and the Hittites?"

"A fortnight on Tuesday, sir."

"Well, you may play him in that match, on the understanding that he is not to bowl for more than five overs at a time. I'll have him in good order for you, but he mustn't be overworked."

Marsh, after a glance at Pip's form at Ham's net next day, readily agreed to the proposition.

A week later Pip was informed by Mumford, during the French hour, of a curious clerical error in the list containing the names of the Hivite House Eleven, which had been put up that morning. Marsh, it appeared, in a fit of laughable absent-mindedness, had filled the last place in the list with the name of Pip, instead of that of one Elliot, who had occupied that position in the previous round.

"Rum mistake to make," said Mumford, with obvious sincerity.

"Very," said Pip shortly.

"Rather a jest," continued the imaginative Mumford, "if he didn't notice it, and you turned out on the day with the rest of the Eleven instead of Elliott!"

"Jolly comic!" said Pip, without enthusiasm. He was a modest youth, but, like other and older men, he derived no pleasure from hearing his low opinion of himself so heartily endorsed by his friends.

However, his name remained on the list, and on the great day he did turn out with the Eleven, going in last and being bowled first ball, much to the gratification of Mr. Elliott.

The Hivites made a hundred and seventy-eight,—not a bad score, as house-matches go. Then the Hittites took the field. They sent in a red-headed youth named Evans, and a long, lean individual who rejoiced in the thoroughly incongruous nickname of "Tiny." He played with an appallingly straight bat, but seldom took liberties with the bowling.

The opening of the innings was not eventful. House-matches are very much alike as a class. Everybody knows everybody else's game to a nicety, and the result is usually a question of nerves. Tiny and Evans poked systematically and exasperatingly at every ball sent down; the clumps of dark-blue Hittites and pink Hivites round the field subsided into recumbent apathy; and Pip, who was fielding at short slip, began to feel that if house-matches were all as dull as this one he might get through without further disgracing himself.

But Marsh, the bowler, was also a cricketer. He saw that Evans, who was not naturally a defensive player, was getting very tired of poking to order, and resolved to tempt him. He accordingly sent down one of the worst balls ever seen on the school pitch. Evans wavered for a moment, but, remembering his orders, let it go by. It was followed by another, exactly like it: once again Evans restrained his itching bat. But the third was too much for him, and he smote it incontinently over the ropes, to the huge delight of the Hittites.

"Now he's got his eye in!" remarked Master Simpson of the Hittites to Master Mumford, who was sitting beside him on the railings.

"Rot!" replied that youth, as in duty bound, but without conviction. "Any ass could see that Marsh gave him that ball on purpose."

"On purpose? What for?" inquired Simpson doubtfully.

"What a question to ask!" replied Mumford, casting about for an answer. "Of course you don't know enough about the game, but the reason why Marsh bowled that particular ball was—Hooray! Hoor-a-a-ay-ee-ah-ooh! Well held, sir! What did I say, young Simpson?"

For Evans, throwing caution to the winds, had lashed out at a good ball, the last of Marsh's over, and it was now reposing safely in the hands of Mid-off.

Another disaster befell the Hittites a few minutes later. Tiny, who had been stepping out and playing forward with the irritating accuracy of an automaton, played just inside a ball from the Hivite fast bowler, Martin. The ball glanced off his bat, and almost at the same moment Pip became conscious of a violent pain, suggestive of red-hot iron, in his right arm-pit. He clapped his hand to the part affected, and to his astonishment drew forth the ball, to a storm of applause from the delighted Hivites, while Tiny retired, speechless and scarlet, to the Pavilion.

But trouble was in store for the Hivites. The two new batsmen were the opposing captain, one Hewett, a smiter of uncompromising severity, and a somewhat amorphous and pimply youth, destitute of nerves, who was commonly addressed as "Scrabbler." These twain treated the firm of Marsh and Martin with a disrespect that amounted almost to discourtesy. The score rose from forty-five to a hundred, and from a hundred to a hundred and thirty-five, notwithstanding the substitution of two fresh bowlers of established reputation and fair merit. The Hivites began to look unhappy. Their fielding, which hitherto had been well up to the mark, now deteriorated; and when the Scrabbler was missed at the wicket from a snick that was heard all over the ground, Master Simpson became so offensive that Mumford found it necessary to withdraw out of earshot.

At this point Marsh, having obeyed the law which says that when your first-eleven colour-men have failed, you must try your second-eleven colour-men; and when you have done that, you may begin to speculate on outsiders, decided to put Pip on. He accordingly tossed him the ball at the beginning of the next over.

Pip had been living for this moment ever since his name had appeared in the list, and he had carefully rehearsed all the movements necessary to the occasion. He would pick up the ball negligently, hand his cap to the umpire, and place his field with a few comprehensive motions of his arm. He would then toss down a few practice balls to the wicket-keeper, and, after a final glance round the field, proceed to bring the Hittite innings to an inglorious conclusion.

But, alas! whether it was from insufficient rehearsal, or blue funk, Pip's performance was a dreadful failure. He forgot to hand his cap to the umpire; he made no attempt to place his field; and so far was he from casting cool glances around him before commencing his onslaught that he was only prevented, by the heavy hand of the adjacent Scrabbler, from beginning to bowl before the fielders had crossed over.

And when he did begin, the ball which was to have made a crumbling ruin of Hewett's wicket proved to be a fast full-pitch to leg; the second ball was a long-hop to the off; and the third, which had originally been intended to complete Pip's hat-trick, nearly annihilated the gentleman who was fielding point. Marsh was very patient, and made no comment as ball after ball was despatched to the boundary. He would have liked to give the boy time to find his feet, but this sort of thing was too expensive. After two inglorious overs Pip retired once more to second slip, with his inscrutable countenance as inscrutable as ever, but his heart almost bursting beneath his white shirt, with shame and humiliation and a downright grief. It was the first tragedy of his life.

But he had his revenge a moment later. The Scrabbler, with a pretty late cut, despatched a fast ball from Martin straight to Pip. Pip automatically clapped his heels together and ducked down to the ball, but just a moment too late. He felt the ball glance off each instep and pass behind him. The Scrabbler's partner, seeing that Pip had not stopped the ball, called to him to come; then, seeing that the ball had only rolled a few yards, called to him to go back. But Pip by this time had reached the ball. The Scrabbler made a frantic leap back into safety. Pip's long arm shot out, and as the batsman hung for a moment between heaven and earth in his passage back to the crease, he saw wickets and bails disintegrate themselves in wild confusion in response to a thunderbolt despatched from Pip's left hand at a range of six yards.

The partnership was over at last, and the Hittites offered little more resistance. They were all out in another half hour, for a total of two hundred and fifteen,—a score long enough to cause the Hivites to confer gloomily among themselves and ignore the unseemly joy of the Hittites. So play ended for the day.

The match was to be resumed on the following Thursday, two days later. On Wednesday evening Ham sat smoking in his room. He was expecting Pip, who generally chose that time for returning works of fiction. On this occasion Pip was rather long in coming, and when he did come he was not the usual Pip. He had not encountered his form-master in private since the house-match, and was uncertain of his reception. Only the strictest sense of duty brought his faltering feet to Mr. Hanbury's door, and it was with downcast eye and muffled voice that he proffered "Handley Cross" in exchange for "The Jungle Book."

Ham knew his man, and discreetly avoided cricketing topics for the first five minutes. He talked of Mr. Jorrocks, of Mowgli, of the weather—of anything, in fact, rather than half-volleys and full-pitches. It was Pip, with his usual directness, who opened the subject.

"Do you think it will keep fine, sir?"

"Sweltering hot, I expect."

There was an awkward pause. Then Pip said—

"I'm—I'm awfully sorry, sir."

Hanbury understood, and he glowed inwardly to think that the first feeling of this small boy, whose very soul was wrung by the knowledge that he had received his first chance in life and thrown it away, should be one of regret for having disappointed his teacher rather than one of commiseration for himself. Mr. Hanbury was still young and very human, and he felt glad that he had read Pip aright, and not pinned his faith to the wrong sort of boy.

"My dear man," he said, "you did exactly what I expected you to do—no more and no less. You bowled erratically and fielded splendidly." (The idea that he had fielded well had never occurred to Pip.) "I was sorry about the bowling, but I knew you must go through the experience. The best bowler in the world never remembered to bowl with his head his first match. He just did what you did—shut his eyes and plugged them in as hard as he could."

Pip nodded. That was exactly what he had done.

"That's what I meant when I told you the other day that your education was not half completed. I meant that you might be able to knock over a stump at a net all day and yet not be able to keep your head before a crowd. You will do well now you have found your feet. You fielded like a man yesterday, and you'll bowl like a demon to-morrow. I expect great things of you, so keep your tail up, young man, and—By Jove, I promised to see Mr. Mortimer before nine! Excuse me a moment."

Ham bolted from the room.

For Pip, the imperturbable, the impenetrable, was—horresco referens—in tears! After all, he was barely fifteen, and he had endured a good deal already—the quiet disappointment of Marsh, the thinly veiled scorn of the deposed Elliott, and the half-amused contempt of the rest of the house. He had taken them all in his usual impassive way, and the critics who gathered in knots after the game and condemned Marsh for putting "an absolute kid" into the House Eleven, never suspected that the "kid" in question was struggling, beneath an indifferent exterior, between an intense desire for sympathy and a stubborn determination not to show it. And so these words from his beloved Ham, from whom he had expected at the best disappointed silence, brought to his overwrought soul that relief which he so badly needed; and a large tear, trickling down his nose, warned Mr. Hanbury to remember a pressing engagement elsewhere.

Pip soon recovered.

"Lucky Ham had to go out then," he soliloquised, "or he'd have seen me blub."

Ham returned after a discreet interval, and after a few words of wisdom and encouragement dismissed Pip to bed in a greatly improved frame of mind.

The Hivites began their second innings thirty-seven runs to the bad. This fact had impressed itself upon the mind of Marsh, the captain, and he decided, in his vigorous way, that if anything was to be done he must do it himself. He accordingly went in first, accompanied by a confirmed "stone-waller," and proceeded to break the hearts of the Hittite bowlers. Nothing could shake the steadiness of the two players. The most beautiful balls were sent down to them—balls which pitched halfway and wavered alluringly, waiting to be despatched to square-leg, half-volleys, full-pitches, wides; but nothing would tempt them to take liberties. Marsh played sound cricket, and made runs; but his companion played a purely defensive game, his performance being accentuated by a series of sharp knocks, or dull thuds, according as he played the ball with his bat or his body. The arrears had been exactly wiped off when this hero, in endeavouring to interpose as much of his adamantine person as possible between his wicket and a leg-break, lurched heavily backwards and mowed down all three stumps. He retired amid applause.

But the Hivites were not out of the wood. The next two batsmen succumbed rather unluckily, the one leg-before, the other caught at the wicket,—the two ways in which no batsman is ever really out,—and a rot set in. Marsh, it was true, was playing the innings of his life. All bowling seemed to come alike to him, and he usually contrived to score a single at the end of the over and so prolonged the lives of his various fluttered partners. But he could not do everything, and when Pip came in last, the score was only a hundred and five, of which Marsh had made seventy.

Pip's previous performance had not been such as to justify any unbounded confidence in his supporters; but he certainly shaped better this time. He had a good eye, and by resolutely placing his bat in the path of the approaching ball he achieved the twofold result of keeping up his wicket and goading the bowlers to impotent frenzy. Once he survived a whole maiden over, though he was bombarded with long hops, tempted with slows, and intimidated with full-pitches directed at his head. He stood perfectly still; the ball rebounded from his tough young person again and again; and now and then, when the angle of incidence and the angle of reflection were very obtuse indeed, he and Marsh ran a leg-bye. The score crept up, Marsh began to get near his century, and the Hivites again plucked up heart.

After batting for nearly a quarter of an hour, Pip, much to his own surprise, scored a run—four, to be precise—due to an entirely inadvertent snick to the off boundary. This brought the score up to a hundred and thirty. Directly afterwards Marsh completed his hundred, with a mighty drive over the ropes, and "e'en the ranks of Tuscany," as Uncle Bill observed, "could scarce forbear to cheer."

After that Marsh, feeling uncertain as to how long his companion intended to stay, determined to make hay while the sun shone. Accordingly he began to hit. Four fours in one over brought on a slow bowler, who had to be taken off again as soon as possible; for even Pip despised him, and pulled one of his off-balls to square-leg for three. But this state of affairs was too good to last. Marsh, who had been smiting all and sundry since completing his hundred, ran out to a slow ball from the Hittite captain and missed it. The wicket-keeper whipped off the bails in a flash, and the innings was over. The full score was a hundred and fifty-seven, of which Marsh had made a hundred and seventeen. Pip scored seven, not out.

Verily, this was a match. The Hittites only wanted a hundred and twenty to win; but a hundred and twenty is a big figure to compile out of the fourth innings of a house-match, when nerves are snapping like fiddle-strings. However, it was generally considered that the Hittites would win by about five wickets, and Master Simpson, by wagering an ingenious musical instrument, composed mainly of half a walnut-shell and a wooden match (invaluable for irritating nervous masters), against two fives-balls and a moribund white mouse belonging to Mumford, in support of his own house, had just brought himself within the sphere of operations of the Anti-Gambling League, when the Hivites went out to the field for the last time.

Marsh had found an opportunity for a hurried consultation with Mr. Hanbury.

"It's no use your going on to bowl at present," said his adviser. "You can't knock up a hundred and expect to take wickets directly afterwards."

"Whom shall I begin with, sir? I thought of Martin and Watkins."

"Watkins is a broken reed, but he'll last for three overs. Take him off soon, and if you are not ready yourself, give our young friend Pip another trial."

Marsh cocked a respectful but surprised eye at his master.

Hanbury saw the look. "You'll find him a very different performer now," he said. "That little bit of batting will have steadied him nicely. But don't keep him on too long, even though he takes wickets. Give him a rest after five overs, and put him on again later. Make him place his own field: the experience will be useful to him."

Things turned out pretty well as Mr. Hanbury had prophesied. Martin, a steady performer, kept the runs down at his end; and Watkins, the broken reed, bowled exactly three good overs, in the second of which he removed the Hittite captain's leg-bail with a ball which, as Uncle Bill observed, "would have beaten the Old Man himself." After that he fell away, and having been hit three times for four in his fourth over, was taken off.

Marsh was still feeling the effects of his innings, and decided to take another ten minutes' rest. He accordingly electrified players and spectators alike by tossing the ball to Pip.

"We shall win by nine wickets now," said Master Simpson with decision—"not five."

"My dear ass," replied Mumford, "he's only put Pip on for an over to let Martin change ends."

"Well, if he bowls as he did last innings Martin won't get the chance, 'cause Pip will give us all the runs we want in one over. Let's see: six sixes are thirty-six, say ten wides, and—all right, lousy swine!"

This last remark was delivered from a nettle-bed behind the railings, and its warmth was due to the fact that the speaker had been neatly tilted backwards by a well-directed jog from the incensed Mr. Mumford's elbow.

But Pip had no intention of giving away runs this time. He was proud of the confidence in him that had been shown; he was burning to retrieve the disgrace of his last performance; and, best of all, his glorious spell of batting had soothed his nerves and accustomed him to public appearances. He arranged his field quietly, sent a couple of balls down to the wicket-keeper, and even remembered to hand his cap to the umpire.

There was a hush all around the ground as he ran up to the wicket to deliver his first ball.

Things were certainly in a critical state. Of the hundred and twenty runs required to win, the Hittites had obtained forty-five for the loss of one wicket. If the present pair could add another thirty before being separated the match was practically safe. It was felt that Marsh was playing a desperate game in risking everything on the efforts of such a tyro as Pip; and when the Scrabbler took his stand and prepared to punish his presumptuous folly, the Hittites made ready to shout, and the Hivites to decamp to their house.

Pip's head was quite clear this time. His first two balls were to be as straight as possible and a good length; the third, if possible, was to be a fast yorker; the fourth, a good length ball; the fifth, slow and curly; and the last, Ham had told him, could be anything he pleased.

He delivered his first ball as per programme. The Scrabbler stepped well out to it, calculating, with his long reach, to be able to smother it comfortably. Much to his surprise his bat met with no resistance, for he had planted it quite two inches outside. The ball passed between his bat and his legs, whizzed past the leg stump, and was in the wicket-keeper's hands in a moment. The bails were whipped off, and the Scrabbler, who had dragged his foot right over the crease in his tremendous lunge forward, was out, stumped as neatly as possible.

A mighty shout went up as the Scrabbler retired. Two for forty-five.

Another batsman took his place. Pip delivered a ball almost identical with the first. This time the batsman, a stumpy person, not possessed of the Scrabbler's reach, played back, and succeeded in returning the ball to the bowler. Pleased with this success, and desiring to repeat it, he made the fatal mistake of deciding on his next stroke before the ball was bowled. Consequently he played back to a fast yorker, which, you will remember, came third on Pip's schedule. When he turned round his middle stump was lying on the ground, and the wicket-keeper was groping ecstatically for the bails.

Three for forty-five.

The next man was the heavy hitter of the eleven. It was his custom to smite every ball sent down, including the first, with uncompromising severity. On this occasion, however, he was sufficiently impressed with the solemnity of the occasion to endeavour to block the first ball, which was Pip's fourth,—a straight, good-length, orthodox delivery, rather on the short side. The ball rebounded from his rigid bat, and Point just failed to reach it. A little shudder ran round the ground. The slogger, observing his escape, came to the conclusion that he might as well be outed for a slogger as a poker, and lashed out widely at ball number five, which was a slow and curly one. Now, since Pip, who felt the real bowling instinct, which tells a man what the batsman expects (and prompts him to bowl something entirely different), surging up hotter and stronger in his brain every moment, bowled when still a good two yards behind the crease, the lash-out came much too soon, and the slogger's bat was waving wildly in the air what time his bails were being disturbed by a beautiful curly ball which bumped, very very gently, into his off-stump.

Four for forty-five.

There was no mistaking the shout that arose now. Previous vocal efforts had merely expressed pleased surprise at a good piece of bowling, and had voiced the gratifying fact that the Hivites, though about to be beaten, would not be disgraced; but the tornado which now rent the heavens signified that Pip had set the match on its legs again.

Our hero had now bowled five balls, all with his head. He had been holding himself in, bowling not as he wanted to bowl, but as Ham had told him to bowl, and as he knew in his heart of hearts he ought to bowl. But now he was to have his sixth ball, which he was permitted to bowl in any way he pleased. Ham should see something!

His mentor was sitting under the trees with Uncle Bill.

"What will the infant phenomenon give us this time?" inquired the reverend gentleman.

"Something terrifically fast, probably to leg," replied Mr. Hanbury, who knew human nature.

He was right. The ball caught the batsman a resounding crack on the back of the thigh, and sped away to the boundary for four—a leg-bye. So ended Pip's first over.

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 analysis 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 competition, 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 assistance 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 balls 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 balls, 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.