Cricket 1889

SEPT. 19,1889. CRICKET: A WEEKLY &ECORD OP THE GAME. 411 A N E X T R A O R D IN A R Y M A T C H . B y A llison G. O. P ain . I th ink cricketers, as a rule, are a truth­ ful race of beings—perhaps because they have so little opportunity of being other­ wise. Such a fierce light of publicity beats upon the very smallest, most out-of- the-way village ground, that if an unwary boaster begins to multiply his scores and cook his bowling analysis, he is pretty certain to be brought to book sooner or later. The amateur angler is not com­ pelled—is in fact hardly expected—to confine himself to strict historical accu­ racy. He casts his line into some secluded pool, and when he returns with empty basket, full of wondrous tales about the fish that he ‘ ‘ put back,” who shall gain­ say him ? But the cricketer, I take it, must be a man of rigid, unswerving truthfulness. Of course there must be exceptions to the rule, and among them I am afraid my friend and late colleague, Ducks- worth, must be reckoned. If he really could do once all that he is reported (by himself) to have done, how is it that he never played for his county—for the Gentlemen—for the United Universe ? “ I am a bowler,” says Ducksworth modestly, “ not a bat. My very highest score was 245 not out. I never made more than that in my life.” (Strictly true, I believe,) But as a bowler he must have been superb, for he himself hath said it. Not only could he “ meditate a shooter ” like a bowler in a recent school story, but he could deliver one when he pleased, on any wicket, wet or dry. And as for “ break,” he often took wickets with balls that pitched wide—absolutely wide, I assure you, sir—in fact several times the umpire has actually called “ wide,” and, before the word was out of his mouth, the bails were off. But this was a minor exploit— his greatest pride was his pace. There is a certain museum somewhere on the face of the globe where you may still see the three stumps that he broke with three consecutive balls. Before his lightning speed the ordinary wicket-keeper shrank appalled, and the long-stop retired almost to the boundary. “ There were 70 byes off me in one match.” I have heard him tell the tale again and again. Everyone asks the same question, “ Why on earth did they keep you on?” “ Well,you see,” replies Ducksworth, with his UbUal air of being forced to speak about himself, muoh against his own will, “ those 70 byes were the only runs made off me during the whole match, and seven wickets for 70 is not expensive, is it ?” And then he resumes, “ but that’s nothing—I once took ten wickets—” Here the story begins to vary. I am prepared to state on oath that it used to run thus: “ ten wickets for 10 runs.” Then the runs gradually dwindled and died away till there were none left—“ ten wickets for 0.” His latest improvement is “ ten wickets in ten consecutive halls for 0.” If any person, having the fear of the M.C.C. before his eyes, proceeds to ask how it was that he was allowed to bowl two overs running, Ducksworth is ready for him, “ Of course the other man bowled an over, but still, you see, practi­ cally consecutive!” Now we come to the story of the “ extraordinary match”—all the exploits here recorded were ordinary, every-day affairs to Ducksworth. I first heard the story one very hot evening in July last year, when the entire staff of Mr. Somerset’s Select Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen were sitting and smoking together under the trees on Campdon Common, S.W. The entire staff numbered three—Somerset never taught himself, and so could hardly bs reckoned as one of his own staff, but he looked on “ as few other men could have done,” like Mr. Merdle’s chief butler. “ I am rather surprised,” began Cornish, whose one pleasure in life was to worry Ducksworth, “ That you never played any single-wicket matches. Your bowling would have made it impossible for anyone to score.” “ I did once play a most remarkable ”— “ I have read Pickwick,” interrupted Cornish, drily. “ Pickwick? Oh, ah! Mr. Jingle’s 570 not out in India. Well, my match was much more extraordinary than Jingle’s, although only 11 runs were soored altogether. It was like this. I was once assistant-master in a large private school in the south of England.” “ Boom for a very large private school there, I should think! ” All the inter­ ruptions came from Cornish—I was content to listen in silence. If I had attempted to speak, my gravity would have given way under the strain. “—In a school where the piincipal was a bit of a tyrant, always caning boys and keeping them in. I used to intercede for them, but it was very seldom any use. At last, one day he announced that thirty.seven boys would be kept in all day on the following Monday, while the rest of the boys had a whole holiday. I couldn’t stand that! Thirty-seven boys —why it was more than half the school 1 I determined to plead their cause.” “ I suppose you would have been the master on duty ?” “ No, not at all. I asked Birchell— that was the principal—to let off half the boys. He wouldn’t. Well, I said, let them off with half-a-day’s detention. He wouldn’t. But, he said, I ’ll tell you what I will do. I ’ll play you a single­ wicket match after tea, and if you beat me, I ’ll let off the whole lot. Each man to play with his own bat. I agreed. The boys were all in a state of great excite­ ment. Some of them offered to bet as much as 10 to 1 on me. When we turned out to play after tea they all shouted, ‘ Go it, sir.’ ” “ Go what ?” “ You know the expression, surely ? ” (Cornish looked profoundly innocent). “ Well, no matter. Birchell won the toss and made 5—not in good form, but still he made them. Then I went in and hit up 5 off the first 5 balls. You should have heard those fellows cheer! Then I got a bit reckless—the bowling was wretchedly easy, and drove the next ball right into Birchell’s hands. We had a short interval, and then somehow or other as Birchell was leaning on his bat it smashed close to the handle. You will remember that we had agreed that each man should play with his own bat. Birchell looked glum, and said the con­ ditions of the combat were no longer equal, but he would try, &c., &c. What do you think I did? I promptly smashed my own bat in the same way. ‘ Now,’ I said, ‘ the conditions are equal.’ He looked at me in astonishment. Then he walked slowly up to the hedge and flung the blade of his bat away. I did the same with my blade. Then he marched up to the wicket with nothing but the handle in his hand. Of course, I bowled him out first ball. You should have heard those fellows cheer ! Then I went in—hit the first ball as hard as I could— and broke the handle clean in half. There was a look of triumph in Birchell’s eye—the boys all looked downcast and hopeless. I didn’t lose my head, though. I simply drew a large silk handkerchief from my coat, and wound it tightly round and round my hand. ‘ Now then,’ I said, ‘ Come on and do your worst.’ You should have heard ”— “ Those fellows cheer. G oon.” “ He bowled me a slow-—I struck it as hard as I could with my bare hand.” “ I thought you had a handkerchief round it ?” “ So I had. But in a certain sense it was bare. I didn’t send the ball very far, but I knew that I might not get another chance, so I started off and was half-way down to the bowler’s stump, before he realised that I meant to run at all. I was yards off the wicket when he took a shot at it—and missed by about an inch. I had won the match and delivered the boys from their detention. There was a scene!” “ Something like Coventry after Lady Godiva’s ride, I should think.” “ Oh yes—something like that, only more so! You should have heard those fellows cheer. They all clamoured for a piece of my handkerchief—I had to tear it ail to bits—haven’t got an atom of it left to show you. And then they all subscribed and presented me with a silver teapot.” I think a kettle would havebeenmore appropriate,” murmured Cornish, softly. “ I can’t Bhew you'the teapot just now because—because a friend of mine is taking care of it for me till I get settled. But you shall see it.” “ Not now, but sometime in the far-off years,” quoted Cornish. “ By the way, did you ever hear or see or read of a cer­ tain"play called ‘ The Corsican Brothers?” “ I never even heard the name before that I know of.” “ Splendide mendax," muttsred Cor­ nish. (N.B.—Ducksworth is not a clas­ sical man.) * * * * * The only sad point about the story is that Ducksworth injured his hand so fatally by his desperate act that he has never since been able to bowl in his proper form.