Cricket 1890

OCT. 30, 1890. CBICKET: A WEEKLY EECOED OF THE GAME. 485 H O W U N C L E T O B Y G O T E V E N W I T H T H E C U R A T E . A C R I C K E T T A R N . B y “ L e B a l a f r e .” I have heard my old uncle tell the yarn often, and if anyone could tell a story well, it was uncle Toby. To see him sitting in his large wicker sentry-box,just outside the old rustic porch, with his long church­ warden and his famous Toby-Philpot- jug of nutty-brown-ale, was a’sight not to be forgotten. Uncle and his jug had been so long associated that, like man and wife, they had begun to resemble each other in outward appearance. Of course every­ body has seen the old brown “ Toby Phil- pot ”—its broad and rotund body, capable of holding a couple of quarts ; the strong handle placed akimbo, the broad and beaming smile of the face, and the foam­ ing froth that completed the head of the figure. Well, such a man was my uncle. Six feet in his boots, and weight seventeen stone. At the time I speak of, uncle Toby had given up the active sports of his youth, and had settled down on one of his farms about fourteen miles from London. He had been a smart, active cricketer, good enough for his county, and had even played in the old All-England Eleven. But what he most delighted in was a good bit of rabbit shooting, and, for that reason, the home farm was selected by him as his place of residence. Therewere four beautiful spin­ neys stretching back from the meadows beyond the orchards, while on the right for about a mile were quantities of close growing yellow gorse, through which rides, or lanes, had been cut. Then, when the cricket was over, uncle would have down a half-dozen or so of his friends, and there would be high jinks for about a fortnight. It was one of the most beautiful sights in creation to be out with him on one of those days, and we youngsters would beg hard for a day or two off to help to carry some­ thing. Each guest would station himself in one of the rides,while the old man with his dozen beagles would go into the gorse. The work would soon begin, while the tops of the bushes would become violently agitated through the working of the beagles. “ Hark! Statesman, h ark !” echoed the huntsman, “ Marksman and Spanker ! ” “ To ’em, boys! ” “ T o ’em !” “ Look out there! ” Bang! Bang! and over went the short tails. But it was not of rabbit shooting that I was going to tell you, although they were rare times: but about a cricket match between my uncle’s eleven and a team selected by the curate of the parish. Ours—I call it “ ours,” you know—was at that time a fairish set. "VVe had beaten Mitcham, Dorking, and Croydon. Had drawn with Esher. Beaten Surrey Club and Ground, and the “ Vine,” the latter a good old club in its day. “ Well, just at this time, when everything promised so well,” said uncle Toby, bringing his huge fist down upon the table, and making the old jug jump three inches away, “ blame me, if that new curate didn’t chip in and spoil the whole fan of the game. He was a good-looking, smartish sort of a chap, could run a bit, and play cricket in the Stonewaller style—be in half a day for 20 runs. Well, the first thing he did was to take away all our girls. What with evening lectures, choir practices, and Dorcas meetings, the boys stood no chance. Then he introduced croquet. Like it ? Not me,” emphasised the old chap. “ I tried once, just to oblige him, but one of the wooden balls went into the conservatory, and didn’t go in at the usual door-way of entrance. Well, I was voted by the girls to be too strong for that game. ‘ Why don't you striM gently, like Mr. Fanshaw does ? ’ said one of the young ladies. ‘ I am sure he would be only too pleased to teach you.’ ‘ I don’t think it would be so agreeable to him, Mary,’ replied I. ‘ Mary, indeed! Miss Wilson, if you please.’ I saw how the land lay, directly, and so sheered off. But poor Harry Gibson, our wicket-keeper, was sadly cut up, because Mary Wilson was awfully gone on the curate. Up to the croquet episode, he had let us alone, but now commenced the tussle which enabled us to get even with him, and eventually to score. One evening he came down upon the ground, went on to bowl, then he took a bat, and we thought he was going to make himself pleasant with us, but at the close of the practice, he got us together, and gave us what he called a dissertation oil University cricket. ‘ You want to be put more in unity,’ said he. ‘Some of you play pretty well,’ con­ tinued he, in a patronizing sort of way, ‘but you require a little of the polish which can only be got from playing with good players of the University stamp. Your ground, too, requires more looking after, the wickets might be improved, and the out-fielding is very rough. Suppose we call a meeting about it, and talk matters over.’ Well, we had several meetings, but the oftener we met the more we became divided, till at last the club split up into two. My party still held the ground, while the curate took the rest to a meadow on the remote side of the village. I am happy to say that the best members of the team stuck to their colours,” continued uncle Toby, “ but we lost one or two. Still holding out what he called the right hand of fellowship,” said uncle, “ he made a match with us on our ground, and beat us, tho’ only by five runs ; but still, lie won, to the intense joy of his party, including the girls, and to the chagrin ofours. That sent us all home with our tails between our legs, you see, and Ve were not best pleased next day when he held forth to explain the reasons : ‘ You would not take my advice. I could put you right in a very short time, University cricket and country cricket are so different, you see—but there, if I ean’t make you understand, you will never agree with me.’ ‘Now look here, Mr. Fan­ shaw,’ said I, ‘we won’t disagree. Let us play the return, and say no more about it. The season is practically over, and I want a bit of rabbit-shooting. Some half dozen of my friends are coming down and we’ll take them into the match and play thirteen or fourteen a side. Another year, perhaps, we shall be able to fall in with your views on University cricket, but,any­ how, let us wind up the season in an amicable manner.’ Well, this pleased the curate, for he thought he had scored a Jioint or two, so off he went to his Dorcas "meeting and told them that he thought my party was coming round to his way t>f thinking. ‘ I am sure it would be better for them instead of holding their cricket meetings at the Bed Lion,’ said Mary Wilson. Well, at last,” said Uncle Toby, “ my friends arrived at the station with their trunks and gun cases, and, as some of the rustics remarked, they looked as if they could shoot a bit. There was one sturdy fellow over six feet high, a Mr. Johnson, with a magnificent crop of whiskers ; Mr. Carr, a rather high- sliouldered good-tempered fellow of medium height, with a lovely moustache, and hair of the auburn type ; Mr. Bingley, the third, was built rather on the American model, thin and wiry, with hair of the tstllow candle pattern. The other three called for no special notice, but they were evidently jolly good fellows, and sang Some jolly good songs, the same evening, at the Bed Lion. At last, the eventful day of the match came. It was held on the market-day, Saturday. All the world afid his wife came out to see it, and the girls and wives were in full fig. I reckon there were about 1,500 in the ring around the players, and everybody agreed that such a sight had never before been seen upon the green. The girls were around the curate like flies around troacle, while Harry Gibson ground his teeth as he saw Mary Wilson clap her hands when Fanshaw walked up to the Dorcas contingent. ‘ How shall we divide your friends ?’ says the curate to me. ‘ Oh ! we’ll take them three each,’ says I. ‘ Well,’ says the comic ’singer, Mills, ‘ Watkins and Taylor and I would like to play for the winning side, so I should like to go in with Mr. Fanshaw. ’ ‘ Oh ! all-right,’ says I, ‘desert your old pal if you like.’ And so it was settled. The curate won the toss and elected to bat first, and a big cheer went up as the Superintendent of the Sunday School and the Yicar’s son went to the wickets. I was captain, and took the first over. Gibson kept wicket. Twenty runs had been scored when down went the middle stump of the Sunday School captain. At twenty-eight, the Vicar's son stepped out to a short ’un and Gibson whipped off his bails. Taylor and Mills put on a dozen and left, making way for Fanshaw and another. I now,” said uncle Toby, and his old fat sides shook with laughter, “ thought a change of bowl­ ing desirable, and so put on Bingley and Johnson. Bingley’s first ball, which was an underhand slow, was well played by the curate ; but he evidently thought small beer of the bowling, for he came at the second as though to hit it out of the field ; somehow the ball dodged him, and Gibson as nearly as possible stumped him, but the umpire gave his decision in the curate’s favour. 1No wonder,’ ground out Harry. ‘ He’s Mary’s father.’ ” Says uncle Toby with a wink, “ it was over and Johnson took the ball. They ran one for a bye, and down went the second ball, but I don’t believe- the parson saw it. Such was the express pace with which it was NEXT ISSUE, NOVEMBER 27.