At which Henfrey became abusive, for he had achieved an “egg” that afternoon, and missed a catch; which things soured him, though Day’s had polished off Dexter’s handsomely.
“Well,” he said at length, “you’re in the semifinal now, of all weird places. You’d better play Spence’s next. When can you play?”
“Henfrey,” said Clephane, “I have a bright, open, boyish countenance, but I was not born yesterday. You want to get a dangerous rival out of the way without trouble, so you set Shields’ to smash up Spence’s. No, Henfrey. I do not intend to be your catspaw. We will draw lots who is to play which. Here comes Jackson. We’ll toss odd man out.”
And when the coins fell there were two tails and one head; and the head belonged to the coin of Clephane.
“So, you see,” he said to Henfrey, “Shields’ is in the final. No wonder you wanted us to scratch.”
I should like this story to end with a vivid description of a tight finish. Considering that Day’s beat Spence’s, and consequently met Shields’ in the final, that would certainly be the most artistic ending. Henfrey batting—Clephane bowling—one to tie, two to win, one wicket to fall. Up goes the ball! Will the lad catch it!! He fumbles it. It falls. All is over. But look! With a supreme effort—and so on.
The real conclusion was a little sensational in its way, but not nearly so exciting as that.
The match between Day’s and Shields’ opened in a conventional enough manner. Day’s batted first, and made two hundred and fifty. Henfrey carried his bat for seventy-six, and there were some thirties. For Shields’ Clephane and Mansfield made their usual first-wicket stand, and the rest brought the total up to ninety-eight. At this point Henfrey introduced a variation on custom. The match was a three days’ match. In fact, owing to the speed with which the other games had been played, it could, if necessary, last four days. The follow-on was, therefore, a matter for the discretion of the side which led. Henfrey and his team saw no reason why they should not have another pleasant spell of batting before dismissing their opponents for the second time and acquiring the cup. So in they went again, and made another two hundred and fifty odd, Shields’ being left with four hundred and twelve to make to win.
On the morning after Day’s second innings, a fag from Day’s brought Clephane a message from Henfrey. Henfrey was apparently in bed. He would be glad if Clephane would go and see him in the dinner-hour. The interview lasted fifteen minutes. Then Clephane burst out of the house, and dashed across to Shields’ in search of Mansfield.
“I say, have you heard?” he shouted.
“What’s up?”
“Why, every man in Day’s team, bar two kids, is in bed. Ill. Do you mean to say you haven’t heard? They thought they’d got that house cup safe, so all the team except the two kids, fags, you know, had a feed in honour of it in Henfrey’s study. Some ass went and bought a bad rabbit pie, and now they’re laid up. Not badly, but they won’t be out for a day or two.”
“But what about the match?”
“Oh, that’ll go on. I made a point of that. They can play subs.”
Mansfield looked thoughtful.
“But I say,” he said, “it isn’t very sporting, is it? Oughtn’t we to wait or something?”
“Sporting! My dear chap, a case like this mustn’t be judged by ordinary standards. We can’t spoil the giant rag of the century because it isn’t quite sporting. Think what it means—Shields’ getting the cup! It’ll keep the school laughing for terms. What do you want to spoil people’s pleasure for?”
“Oh, all right,” said Mansfield.
“Besides, think of the moral effect it’ll have on the house. It may turn it into the blood house of Wrykyn. Shields himself may get quite sportive. We mustn’t miss the chance.”
The news having got about the school, Clephane and Mansfield opened their second innings to the somewhat embarrassed trundling of Masters Royce and Tibbit, of the Junior School, before a substantial and appreciative audience.
Both played carefully at first, but soon getting the measure of the bowling (which was not deep) began to hit out, and runs came quickly. At fifty, Tibbit, understudying Henfrey as captain of the side, summoned to his young friend Todby from short leg, and instructed him to “have a go” at the top end.
It was here that Clephane courteously interfered. Substitutes, he pointed out, were allowed, by the laws of cricket, only to field, not to bowl. He must, therefore, request friend Todby to return to his former sphere of utility, where, he added politely, he was a perfect demon.
“But, blow it,” said Master Tibbit, who (alas!) was addicted to the use of strong language, “Royce and I can’t bowl the whole blessed time.”
“You’ll have to, I’m afraid,” said Clephane with the kindly air of a doctor soothing a refractory patient. “Of course, you can take a spell at grubs whenever you like.”
“Oh, darn!” said Master Tibbit.
Shortly afterwards Clephane made his century.
The match ended late on the following afternoon in a victory for Shields’ by nine wickets, and the scene at the School Shop when Royce and Tibbit arrived to drown their sorrows and moisten their dry throats with ginger beer is said by eyewitnesses to have been something quite out of the common run.
The score sheet of the match is also a little unusual. Clephane’s three hundred and one (not out) is described in the Wrykinian as a “masterly exhibition of sound yet aggressive batting.” How Henfrey described it we have never heard.
The painful case of G. Montgomery Chapple, bachelor, of Seymour’s house, Wrykyn. Let us examine and ponder over it.
It has been well said that this is the age of the specialist. Everybody, if they wish to leave the world a better and happier place for their stay in it, should endeavour to
