type during my piloting days, but this Holmes might be a new one for
my
collection.
A dismal succession of Dark Blues went down in order, leaving Ashcroft in a humor to tear his hair, and prompting Holmes to say, “If they attempted cover-drives instead of deep midwickets, they could exploit those gaps.” He pointed to right field. “Incidentally,” he added, “is it a sixer if the ball flies over the fence?”
While I pondered these mysteries Ashcroft muttered somethingabout sending foreigners home. I confess that I too was growing a bit irked. It rankled to have my boyhood game called up for judgment and found lacking.
“Terrible luck!” Ashcroft moaned when yet another Boston hit safely.
“Tut,” countered Holmes. “Luck is a product of strategy. Your club shows extremely little of it, attacking or defending.”
Before Ashcroft could summon an answer, our attention was caught by voices rising from the field.
“What is it?” asked Holmes.
“A rhubarb,” I said, as if any saphead would know
that
, and was pleased at his puzzlement.
“This certainly isn’t cricket,” said Holmes at length.
That was too much for Ashcroft, who launched a salvo of elevated rhetoric I wouldn’t have thought was in him. “You are correct, young man!” he snapped. “Base ball is
not
cricket. It is rough and contentious, a
democratic
pastime. It requires team play, yes, but individual pluck as well. It is rambunctious in its vitality. It is not weighed down with ornament and tradition, like your cricket, but alive and vital! It is
our
game! A true portrait, sir, of our national character!”
Well, I considered it first-rank argumentation, and was generally inclined to agree. But Ashcroft was mistaken if he thought he’d scored a home shot. Holmes took his time in sizing up his opponent with those gray eyes of his, and said, “Your ‘true portrait’ would be a good deal more absorbing with elements of
success
, not mere energy.” He added a
sir
, not outrightly mocking but in the neighborhood. “And your national game”—he gestured toward the diamond, where the dispute continued—“would be improved by more perfect agreement on its rules.”
The crowd’s agitation exploded into hisses, groans, and boos.
Holmes made a palms-up gesture.
See?
The Dark Blue captain had produced a rule book. “Read it out loud!” some wag yelled; another added, “Pass it around and let us
all
read!” A swell with waxed mustachios and a collapsible top hat turned and pointed at me. “Let Mark read it! Don’t HE know somethin’ about words?” It stirred a laugh, and heads turned my way.
“You are well known.” Holmes’s leaden eyes regarded me.
“I’m a bit of a scribbler,” I admitted modestly.
“That man indicated as much,” he said dryly. “The stains on your fingers and cuff previously suggested it to me as well.”
I looked down. Sure enough, faded black smudges were visible on my right cuff, and my fingers bore traces of ink from notebook entries that morning.
“I might also surmise that you began as a compositor,” said Holmes.
I have to admit that it rattled me. How’d he know of my years setting type?
“A trifling observation,” he said, noting my puzzlement. “Those calluses on your left thumb—old, strongly ridged—could result from nothing else but gripping heavy composition boxes.”
I nodded, thinking his feat clever but not
so
remarkable. On the other hand, nobody else had ever done it.
“Incidentally,” he went on, “what are your accents? I can distinguish forty-two London dialects, but I confess that many here in America are as yet beyond me—and yours, Mr. Clemens, is unique.”
I told him it was Missouri at base, Pike County with some Negro dialects tossed in, and overlayered with a sight of traveling. “Andyours, Holmes?” I considered myself no slouch either when it came to sounding out a man’s pedigree. “I reckon you’ve spent some years in rural territory
my
collection.
A dismal succession of Dark Blues went down in order, leaving Ashcroft in a humor to tear his hair, and prompting Holmes to say, “If they attempted cover-drives instead of deep midwickets, they could exploit those gaps.” He pointed to right field. “Incidentally,” he added, “is it a sixer if the ball flies over the fence?”
While I pondered these mysteries Ashcroft muttered somethingabout sending foreigners home. I confess that I too was growing a bit irked. It rankled to have my boyhood game called up for judgment and found lacking.
“Terrible luck!” Ashcroft moaned when yet another Boston hit safely.
“Tut,” countered Holmes. “Luck is a product of strategy. Your club shows extremely little of it, attacking or defending.”
Before Ashcroft could summon an answer, our attention was caught by voices rising from the field.
“What is it?” asked Holmes.
“A rhubarb,” I said, as if any saphead would know
that
, and was pleased at his puzzlement.
“This certainly isn’t cricket,” said Holmes at length.
That was too much for Ashcroft, who launched a salvo of elevated rhetoric I wouldn’t have thought was in him. “You are correct, young man!” he snapped. “Base ball is
not
cricket. It is rough and contentious, a
democratic
pastime. It requires team play, yes, but individual pluck as well. It is rambunctious in its vitality. It is not weighed down with ornament and tradition, like your cricket, but alive and vital! It is
our
game! A true portrait, sir, of our national character!”
Well, I considered it first-rank argumentation, and was generally inclined to agree. But Ashcroft was mistaken if he thought he’d scored a home shot. Holmes took his time in sizing up his opponent with those gray eyes of his, and said, “Your ‘true portrait’ would be a good deal more absorbing with elements of
success
, not mere energy.” He added a
sir
, not outrightly mocking but in the neighborhood. “And your national game”—he gestured toward the diamond, where the dispute continued—“would be improved by more perfect agreement on its rules.”
The crowd’s agitation exploded into hisses, groans, and boos.
Holmes made a palms-up gesture.
See?
The Dark Blue captain had produced a rule book. “Read it out loud!” some wag yelled; another added, “Pass it around and let us
all
read!” A swell with waxed mustachios and a collapsible top hat turned and pointed at me. “Let Mark read it! Don’t HE know somethin’ about words?” It stirred a laugh, and heads turned my way.
“You are well known.” Holmes’s leaden eyes regarded me.
“I’m a bit of a scribbler,” I admitted modestly.
“That man indicated as much,” he said dryly. “The stains on your fingers and cuff previously suggested it to me as well.”
I looked down. Sure enough, faded black smudges were visible on my right cuff, and my fingers bore traces of ink from notebook entries that morning.
“I might also surmise that you began as a compositor,” said Holmes.
I have to admit that it rattled me. How’d he know of my years setting type?
“A trifling observation,” he said, noting my puzzlement. “Those calluses on your left thumb—old, strongly ridged—could result from nothing else but gripping heavy composition boxes.”
I nodded, thinking his feat clever but not
so
remarkable. On the other hand, nobody else had ever done it.
“Incidentally,” he went on, “what are your accents? I can distinguish forty-two London dialects, but I confess that many here in America are as yet beyond me—and yours, Mr. Clemens, is unique.”
I told him it was Missouri at base, Pike County with some Negro dialects tossed in, and overlayered with a sight of traveling. “Andyours, Holmes?” I considered myself no slouch either when it came to sounding out a man’s pedigree. “I reckon you’ve spent some years in rural territory
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