the last time. The Id had tossed the ball to the Village Idiot.
Victor Trumper came striding out of the pavilion and took middle and leg.
Presently a rumour began to reach us out in the deep that the Village Idiot had found a spot. It appears that several generations of his forebears had been buried in Murderers’ Meadow before it was enclosed and turned into a cricket field. The thunder of Dr. Grace’s hooves had considerably disturbed their rest and now the V.I., by some primitive, atavistic, homing instinct, had found his spot right on the crown of his great-great-grandfather’s skull which was anchored a few feet outside the off stump. The result was some absolutely unplayable stuff.
With his first ball he sent a joyful death rattle through Trumper’s wicket. His second caught Ranjit Singhi between wind and water. By the end of the over the score was 1001 for 5. But during the luncheon interval Dr. Grace and a couple of J.P.s, of which the visiting team had no shortage, pulled a fast one on us, by having him certified. The rest of our bowling was poor stuff and though Salvador Dali’s lobs soared up to dizzy heights and came down accompanied by unmentionable objects, they took no wickets.
The monster innings dragged on. Summer was past and gone and with the decay of the vegetation we in the outfield were exposed not only to the elements but also to the scrutiny of our skipper. I was compelled to suspend my monograph on Varieties of the Cuckoo-Spit while Lizard Bayliss had to fold up the Crown and Anchor Board with which he had been trimming the cricket correspondents of The Fly Paper. Soon afterwards, however, Dr. Grace appealed against floods and snow and we retired to winter quarters.
The recess was spent in feverish planning and our side’s Headquarters in the Refractory Wing of the Three Jolly Cricketers was like an S.S. Sabotage College. But against such an experienced tactician as Dr. Grace our best-laid schemes miscarried. Play had scarcely been resumed under a tropical sun when the mine which Chippy de Zoete’s Sappers had dug under the leg stump was detected and rendered harmless. One after another, explosive bats, winged bails, and gyroscopically controlled balls were detected and appealed against while the plucky decisions of our staunch umpire were set at naught by the MCC. In the end it was only fear of utter exhaustion and premature death which caused the visitors to declare their innings closed at 3,333,333 for 9; truly, as the Editor of The Fly Paper remarked in his leading article, a formidable total.
If our batting was on a par with our bowling—and despite Salvador Dali’s boast that he would carry his chest-of-drawers right through the innings, there was no reason to suppose it would be any different—we were all set for an innings defeat. It was generally agreed that the side needed stiffening, though some defeatists were even beginning to mutter that the sooner it was over the better, that cricket with its rigid code and static tempo was not our game.
The morning our innings opened, I was leaning over the pavilion rails, watching the groundsmen stoke up the furnace in which the MCC kept their Demon Bowler between overs, when Chippy de Zoete, our vice-captain, tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry, Other, old boy,” he said, “but I’m going to ask you to stand down. It’s for the good of the side, of course. Fact is we want to play Another in your place.”
I said: “Of course.” I couldn’t very well say anything else. After all, the family motto of the Others is “They also serve”. And by George when I heard who my substitute was, I let out a great cheer. For it was none other than the Willow King himself, the British Wood-Demon, the tutelary deity of the Game. It seems he had fallen into a decline a long time gone because of the deathly stillness which had crept into the sacred ritual, and being subject, like all Willows, to melancholia, he had got himself
Victor Trumper came striding out of the pavilion and took middle and leg.
Presently a rumour began to reach us out in the deep that the Village Idiot had found a spot. It appears that several generations of his forebears had been buried in Murderers’ Meadow before it was enclosed and turned into a cricket field. The thunder of Dr. Grace’s hooves had considerably disturbed their rest and now the V.I., by some primitive, atavistic, homing instinct, had found his spot right on the crown of his great-great-grandfather’s skull which was anchored a few feet outside the off stump. The result was some absolutely unplayable stuff.
With his first ball he sent a joyful death rattle through Trumper’s wicket. His second caught Ranjit Singhi between wind and water. By the end of the over the score was 1001 for 5. But during the luncheon interval Dr. Grace and a couple of J.P.s, of which the visiting team had no shortage, pulled a fast one on us, by having him certified. The rest of our bowling was poor stuff and though Salvador Dali’s lobs soared up to dizzy heights and came down accompanied by unmentionable objects, they took no wickets.
The monster innings dragged on. Summer was past and gone and with the decay of the vegetation we in the outfield were exposed not only to the elements but also to the scrutiny of our skipper. I was compelled to suspend my monograph on Varieties of the Cuckoo-Spit while Lizard Bayliss had to fold up the Crown and Anchor Board with which he had been trimming the cricket correspondents of The Fly Paper. Soon afterwards, however, Dr. Grace appealed against floods and snow and we retired to winter quarters.
The recess was spent in feverish planning and our side’s Headquarters in the Refractory Wing of the Three Jolly Cricketers was like an S.S. Sabotage College. But against such an experienced tactician as Dr. Grace our best-laid schemes miscarried. Play had scarcely been resumed under a tropical sun when the mine which Chippy de Zoete’s Sappers had dug under the leg stump was detected and rendered harmless. One after another, explosive bats, winged bails, and gyroscopically controlled balls were detected and appealed against while the plucky decisions of our staunch umpire were set at naught by the MCC. In the end it was only fear of utter exhaustion and premature death which caused the visitors to declare their innings closed at 3,333,333 for 9; truly, as the Editor of The Fly Paper remarked in his leading article, a formidable total.
If our batting was on a par with our bowling—and despite Salvador Dali’s boast that he would carry his chest-of-drawers right through the innings, there was no reason to suppose it would be any different—we were all set for an innings defeat. It was generally agreed that the side needed stiffening, though some defeatists were even beginning to mutter that the sooner it was over the better, that cricket with its rigid code and static tempo was not our game.
The morning our innings opened, I was leaning over the pavilion rails, watching the groundsmen stoke up the furnace in which the MCC kept their Demon Bowler between overs, when Chippy de Zoete, our vice-captain, tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry, Other, old boy,” he said, “but I’m going to ask you to stand down. It’s for the good of the side, of course. Fact is we want to play Another in your place.”
I said: “Of course.” I couldn’t very well say anything else. After all, the family motto of the Others is “They also serve”. And by George when I heard who my substitute was, I let out a great cheer. For it was none other than the Willow King himself, the British Wood-Demon, the tutelary deity of the Game. It seems he had fallen into a decline a long time gone because of the deathly stillness which had crept into the sacred ritual, and being subject, like all Willows, to melancholia, he had got himself
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