SIGNS AND PORTENTS: A CRICKET STORY

'Dear feller,' said Sanderson, clutching my arm, 'it's all over now; do you see that man?'

'The umpire? What's the matter with him?'

'You'll hardly believe me, but that's the very man who was umpiring in a match in Somersetshire last year, in which I took specs. It's an omen. You'd better put me in last to-day, dear feller, I shan't make a run.'

If anyone knows what is the proper treatment for a man of this kind, I should be glad if they would tell me.

'It's probably not the same man,' I said, 'and if it is, what does it matter, the umpire has got nothing to do with your making runs?'

'It's awfully kind of you, dear feller, to try and console me, but it's no use. That umpire on top of that looking- glass settles it.'

We spent the early part of the afternoon outing them for two hundred and fifty, then went in. I took Sanderson with me to the wickets. He had on his Zingari cap and his Rugby house scarf, and carried the bat with which he had made 57 against the Australians. Also the Golliwog was in his pocket, that mascot presented to him in romantic circumstances. The only thing that militated against a large score was the sinister umpire, who was standing by the wickets waiting to give the batsman guard.

Sanderson gurgled something inarticulate. I conjectured rightly that he was asking me to take first ball. I did so, and made a single off it.

Sanderson trotted across the pitch with a wan expression on his face.

He took guard, and glanced round him with a parade of noting how the field was placed. As a matter of fact, I am prepared to give odds that he saw nothing.

What happened next I consider a direct intervention of Providence. The bowler, a medium pace man with a nice off-break, bowled, and Sanderson let go at it blindly. It was a purely speculative stroke. I am certain he did not see the ball. He hit out with all his strength at random. The ball came humming back down the pitch, a foot from the ground. I sprang to one side to avoid it, and heard a sudden sharp howl from behind me. When I turned I saw the umpire in a heap on the ground. With one hand he held his ankle.

Fieldmen came up from all sides, and formed an interested group, while short-slip, who happened to be a doctor, felt the injured limb with professional gravity. Finally he delivered his verdict. The ankle was not broken, but very badly bruised, and ought to be rested. They must get a new umpire. I caught Sanderson's eye. The rest of his face was a mask, on every line of which was written remorse. But his eyes gleamed with a new light.

'Don't you see, dear feller,' he whispered, 'this smashes up the omen. Turns it round completely. It's a century now, old man, and nothing less.'

And when the new umpire arrived, he proceeded without delay or preamble to cut the next three balls like forked lightning past third man to the boundary.

It was seven o'clock when we won, and Sanderson made his century off the last ball bowled. After taking off his pads, he went off to make inquiries after the injured umpire. As he went he fingered the Golliwog very tenderly.

* * * * * *

One of these days Sanderson will have to give up towing with the Weary Willies. They will not be able to spare him from the Colney Hatch team.