*CHAPTER I*
*The Queen's Purse-Bearer*
Winton St. Mary--Cricket: Old Style--Last Man In--Bowled--The GafferExplains--More Explanations--Parson Rochester--"The Boy"--Cambridge inthe Field--Village Batsmen--Old Everlasting makes One--The Squire--AnInvitation--Lord Godolphin is Interested--An Uphill Game--YoungPa'son--The Winning Hit
"Stap me, Frank, if ever I rattle my old bones over these roads again!Every joint in me aches; every wrinkle--and I've too many--is filledwith dust; and my wig--plague on it, Frank, my wig's a doormat. Look atit--whew!"
My lord Godolphin took off his cocked hat, removed his full periwig, andshook it over the side of the calash, wrying his lips as the horse ofone of his escort started at the sudden cloud. My lord had good excusefor his petulance. It was a brilliant June day, in a summer of gloriousweather, and the Wiltshire roads, no better nor worse than other Englishhighways in the year 1702, were thick with white dust, which the autumnrains would by and by transform into the stickiest of clinging mud. TheLord High Treasurer, as he lay back wearily on his cushions, looked,with his lean, lined, swarthy face and close-cropt grizzled poll, everyday of his fifty-eight years. He was returning with his son Francis, nownearly twenty-three, from a visit to his estates in Cornwall. Had hebeen a younger man he would no doubt have ridden his own horse; had hebeen of lower rank he might have travelled by the public coach; butbeing near sixty, a baron, and lord of the Treasury to boot, he drove inhis private four-horsed calash, with two red-coated postilions, and foursturdy liveried henchmen on horseback, all well armed against the perilsof footpads and highwaymen.
It was nearing noon on this bright, hot morning, and my lord had begunto acknowledge to himself that he would barely complete his journey toLondon that day.
"Where are we now, Dickory?" he asked languidly of the nearest rider onthe off-side.
"Nigh Winton St. Mary, my lord," replied the man. "Down the avenueyonder, my lord; then the common, and the church on the right, and thevillage here and there bearing to the left, as you might say, my lord."
"Look 'ee, Frank, we'll draw up at Winton St. Mary and wet our whistles.My lady Marlborough expects us in town to-night, to be sure; but shemust e'en be content to wait. Time was----eh, my boy?--but now, egad,I'll not kill myself for her or any woman."
"'Twould be a calamity--for the nation, sir," said Frank Godolphin witha grin.
"So it would, i' faith. Never fear, Frank, I'll not make way for youfor ten years to come. But what's afoot yonder? A fair, eh?"
The carriage had threaded a fine avenue of elms, and come within sightof the village common, which stretched away beyond and behind thechurch, an expanse of rough turf now somewhat parched and browned,broken here by a patch of shrub, there by a dwindling pond, and boundedin the distance by the thick coverts of the manor-house. My lord'sexclamation had been called forth by the bright spectacle that met hiseyes. At the side of the road, and encroaching also on the grass, wereranged a number of vehicles of various sizes and descriptions, from thehumble donkey-cart of a sherbet seller to the lofty coach of some countymagnate. Between the carriages the travellers caught glimpses of acrowd; and indeed, as they drew nearer to the scene, their ears wereassailed by sundry shoutings and clappings that seemed to betokenincidents of sport or pastime. My lord Godolphin, for all his coldnessand reserve in his official dealings, was in his moments a keensportsman; from a horse-race to a main of cock-fighting or asword-match, nothing that had in it the element of sport came amiss tohim; and as he replaced his wig and settled his hat upon it his eyes litup with an anticipation vastly different from his air of wearydiscontent.
"Split me, Frank," he cried in a more animated tone than was usual withhim; "whatever it is, 'twill cheer us up. John," he added to thepostilion, "drive on to the grass, and stop at the first opening youfind in the ring. Odsbodikins, 'tis a game at cricket; we'll make anafternoon of it, Frank, and brave your mother-in-law's anger, come whatmay."
The postilions whipped up their horses, wheeled to the right, and drovewith many a jolt on to the common, passing behind the row of vehiclesuntil they came to an interval between one of the larger sort and a drayheaped with barrels of cider. There they pulled up sideways to thecrowd, over whose heads the occupants of the calash looked curiouslytowards the scene of the game. It was clearly an exciting moment, forbeyond a casual turning of the head the nearest spectators gave no heedto the new-comers. A space was roped in at some distance in front ofthe church, and within the ring the wickets were pitched--very primitivecompared with the well-turned polished apparatus of to-day. The stumpswere two short sticks forked at the top, stuck at a backward slant intothe turf about a foot apart, with one long bail across them. Nothing hadbeen done to prepare the pitch; the grass was short and dry and stubby,with a tuft here and there likely to trip an unwary fielder headlong.There was no crease, but a hole in the ground. Nor was there anyuniformity of attire among the players: all had the stockings andpantaloons of daily wear, and if there was any difference in theirshirts, it was due merely to their difference in rank and wealth.
"Over" had just been called as Lord Godolphin and his son drove up, andsomething in the attitude of the crowd seemed to show that the game wasat a crisis. The umpires, armed with rough curved bats somewhat likelong spoons, had just taken their new places, and the batsman who was toreceive the first ball of the new over was taking his block. A tall,loose-limbed young fellow, he held his bat with an air of easyconfidence.
"Egad, sir, 'tis Gilbert Young," said Frank Godolphin to his father. "Iknew him at Cambridge: a sticker. Who's the bowler? I don't know him."
The bowler was a youth, a mere stripling of some sixteen or seventeenyears, who stood at his end of the wicket, ball in hand, awaiting theword to "play". His loose shirt was open at the neck; his black hair,not yet cropt for a wig, fell in a strong thick mass over his brow; andas he waited for the batsman to complete his somewhat fastidiouspreparations, he once or twice pushed up the heavy cluster with his lefthand.
"Gibs was ever a tantalising beast," said Frank aside. "Hi, you fellow!"he shouted to a broad-shouldered yokel who stood just in front of him bythe rope, "how stands the score?"
The man addressed looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the speakerwas one of the "quality" he doffed his cap and replied:
"'Tis ninety-four notches, your honour, and last man in. Has a'readytwenty-vive to hisself, and the Winton boys can't get un out."
"Play!" cried the umpire. The batsman stood to his block, and lookedround the field with a smile of confidence. The bowler gave a quickglance around, took a light run of some three yards, and delivered theball--underhand, for round-arm bowling was not yet invented. The balltravelled swiftly, no more than two or three feet above the ground,pitched in front of the block-hole, and was driven hard to the offtowards a thick-set, grimy-looking individual--the village smith. He,bending to field the ball, missed it, swung round to run after it, andfell sprawling over a tussock of grass, amid yells of mingled derisionand disappointment.
"Pick theeself up, Lumpy!" roared the man to whom Frank Godolphin hadspoken. But the ball had already been fielded by Long Robin the tanner,running round from long-on. Sir Gilbert meanwhile had got back to hisend of the wicket, and the scorer, seated near the umpire, had cut twonotches in the scoring stick.
Again the ball was bowled, with an even lower delivery than before. Thebatsman stepped a yard out of his ground and caught the ball on therise; it flew high over the head of the remotest fieldsman, over therope, over the crowd, and dropped within a foot of the lych-gate of thechurch. Loud cheers from a party of gentlemen mounted on coaches infront of a tent greeted this stroke; four notches were cut to the creditof the side, bringing the score to a hundred. There was dead silenceamong the crowd now; it was plain that their sympathies lay with the outside, and this ominous opening of the new bowler's over was a check upontheir enjoyment.
Sir Gilbe
rt once more stood to his block. For his third ball the bowlertook his run on the other side of the wicket. His delivery this timewas a little higher: the ball pitched awkwardly, and the batsman seemedto be in two minds what to do with it. His hesitation was fatal. With aperplexing twist the ball slid along the ground past his bat, hit theoff stump, and just dislodged the bail, which fell perpendicularly andlay across between the sticks. Sir Gilbert looked at it for a momentwith rueful countenance, then marched towards the tent, while the crowdcheered and, the innings being over, made for the stalls and carts, atwhich ale and cider and gingerbread were to be had.
"Egad, 'twas well bowled," ejaculated Lord Godolphin; "a cunning ball, amost teasing twist; capital, capital!"
"I'll go and speak to Gibs," said Frank. "Will you come, sir?"
"Not I, i' faith. 'Tis too hot. Bring him to me. I'll drink a glassof cider here and wait your return."
There was a cider cart near at hand, and his man Dickory brought my lorda brimming bumper drawn from the wood. He winced as the tart liquortouched his palate, unaccustomed to such homely drink; but it was atleast cool and refreshing, and he finished the bumper. As he gave itback he noticed an old man slowly approaching, leaning with one handupon a stout knobby stick of oak, and holding in the other a roughthree-legged stool, which he placed between my lord's calash and therope. He was a fine-looking old man, dressed in plain country homespun;his cheeks were seamed and weather-beaten, but there was still abrightness in his eyes and an erectness in his figure that bespokehealth and the joy of life. He sat down on the stool, took off his hatand wiped his brow, then, resting both hands on his stick, lookedplacidly around him. There was no one near to him; the space was clear,for players and spectators had all flocked their several ways to getrefreshment, and for some minutes the old man sat alone. Then LordGodolphin, to ease his limbs and kill time, stepped out of his carriageand went towards the veteran.
"Well, gaffer," he said, "have ye come out to get a sunning?"
The old man looked up.
"Ay sure, your honour," he said, "and to zee the match. You med thinkme too old; true, I be gone eighty; come Martinmas I shall beeighty-one, and I ha'n't a wamblen tooth in my head--not one, old as Ibe. A man's as old as he feels, says my boy--one o' the wise sayens hehas: I ha'n't felt no older this twenty year, nay, nor twenty-vive yearneither."
"By George! I wish I could say the same. What's the match, gaffer?"
"Well, they do say 'tis for a wager; 'tis all 'I'll lay ye this' and'I'll lay ye that' in these days. I don't know the rights on't, but'tis said it all come about at a supper up at Squire's.--Do 'ee knowSquire? Eh well, there be the house, yonder among the trees. Squire'sson be hot wi' his tongue, and at this same supper--I tell 'ee as Iyeard it--he wagered young Master Godfrey of the Grange he'd bringeleven young gen'lmen from Cambridge college as would beat our villageplayers at the cricket. A hunnerd guineas was the wager, so 'tis said.Master Godfrey he ups and says 'Done wi' 'ee', and so 'tis come about.The Cambridge younkers be all high gentry, every man on 'em; our folks,as your honour med see, be just or'nary folks in the main: there's LongRobin the tanner and Lumpy the smith--he that turned topsy-turvya-hunten the ball by there; and Honest John the miller: Old Everlastenthey calls un, 'cause he never gets cotched out nor bowled neither: ay,a good stick is Old Everlasten, wi' a tough skin of his own. And therebe Soapy Dick the barber, and Tom cobbler, and more of the village folk;and the only gentry among 'em is Master Godfrey hisself and pa'son'sson, and he don't count for gentry wi' some. Do 'ee know pa'son? a goodman, saven your honour, ay, a right good man is Pa'son Rochester, andstands up to old Squire like a game-cock, so he do--a right good man ispa'son, ay sure. And his son Harry--well, to tell 'ee the truth, I'mmain fond of the lad; main fond; 'tis a well-favoured lad, well spokentoo, and he thinks a deal o' me, he do, and I thinks a deal o' he. Why,'twas he bowled that artful ball as put out t' last man from Cambridgecollege.--There, my old tongue runs on; I don't offend your honour?"
"Not a whit," said my lord. "The young bowler is the parson's son, eh?Bred for a parson too, I suppose?"
"He's over young yet, your honour, but a month gone seventeen. He saidto me only yesterday: 'Gaffer,' says he, 'what'll 'ee do 'ithout me whenI go up to Oxford?' He be gwine come October, a' believe. 'Twas atOxford college they made his feyther a pa'son, so belike the lad'll puton the petticoats too, though sure he's fit for summat better. Buthe'll make a good pa'son if he takes arter his feyther. Bless 'ee,Pa'son Rochester be the only man in the parish as a'n't afeard o'Squire. I be afeard o' Squire, I be, though 'ee med not think it. Ah!he's a hard man, is Squire. A' fell out with pa'son first 'cause hewouldn't be his chaplain--goo up t' hall an' say grace and eat themutton and turmuts, an' come away wi'out pudden. Wi'out pudden!--Iwouldn't goo wi'out pudden for no man; that's why I first took a fancyfor pa'son. Then Squire, he wanted to fence in a big slice of thiscommon land, as ha' belonged to the folks of Winton Simmary time wi'outmind; and pa'son stood up to 'n, and told 'n flat to his face 'twas agenthe law, an' he had the law on 'm, he did; an' the wise judges up inLun'on town said as how Squire were wrong. But Lor' bless 'ee, Squirebe as obstinate as a pig; he don't care nowt for judges; he ups and'peals to King Willum hisself. Then King Willum dies, poor feller, an'Queen Anne sits proud on the gold throne, an' there 'tis; 'twill take atime for her poor woman's mind to understand the rights o' the matter;her don't know pa'son so well as we."
"Or she might make him a bishop, eh? Perhaps I can put in a word forhim," said my lord jestingly.
The old man stared.
"And who med 'ee be, your honour, if I mebbe so bold to axe?" he saidslowly.
"I? Oh--well, I have care of the Queen's purse."
"There now, and I've been talken to 'ee just as if 'ee were a knight orsquire, when I med ha' known 'ee by your cut for one of the mighty o'the earth. But 'ee'll forgive a old man--ay, gone eighty year. I wasborn three year afore Scotch Jamie died; no sart of a king was Jamie, awamblen loon, so I've yeard tell. And Charles One, he was well-favouredbefore the Lord, true, but not a man of his word. Nay, Noll Crum'ellwas the right sart o' king; I mind un well. I was a trooper in hisregiment, and we was as fine a set o' men as ever trod neat's leather,true, we was. I rode wi' un to Marston Moor in '44, nigh zixty yearback. Ay, a right king was old Noll. And I fought in Flanders whenNoll was friends with the French king; but I left that line o' life whenCharles Two come back with his French madams; and now we be a-fightenthe French, so 'tis said; 'twas what us Englishmen was born for, to besure; ay, that 'tis."
Here my lord's attention was attracted towards a group of villagersapproaching. They were led by a short well-set-up fellow with ahumorous cast of face; his thumbs were stuck into his arm-pits, and ashe walked he was singing to the accompaniment of a flute played by theman at his side. The old man looked towards him and smiledaffectionately.
"'Tis my boy a-comen," he said. "Was born in '59, your honour, the yearafore Charles Two coom back; and I chrisomed un SherebiahStand-up-and-bless out of Nehemiah nine; a good boy, though wilful."
The boy of forty-three was singing lustily:
"'Twas on a jolly summer's morn, the twenty-first of May, Giles Scroggins took his turmut-hoe, and with it trudged away. For some delights in hay-makin', and some they fancies mowin', But of all the trades as I likes best, give I the turmut hoein'. For the fly, the fly, the fly is on the turmut; And 'tis all my eye for we to try, to keep fly off the turmut."
"Mum, boy, mum!" said his father. "The boy has a sweet breast, yourhonour," he added, turning to Godolphin, "and 'tis my belief 'twill leadun into bad company in the days o' his youth. He _will_ sing 'Sir Simonthe King' and 'Bobbing Joan', and other sinful ditties. Ah! I had agood breast in my time; and you should ha' yeard Noll's men sing as wemarched into Preston fight; I could sing counter to any man.--Boy, doffyour hat to the Queen's purse-bearer.--Ay, 'twas psa'ms an' hymns an'speritual songs in my time, a
s the Book says."
"Sarvant, yer honour," said the new-comer, bobbing to Godolphin."Feyther been taken away my good name? 'Tis a wise feyther knows hisown child; feyther o' mine forgot that when he named me SherebiahStand-up-and-bless. Beant the fault o' my name I ha'n't took to badcourses. But there, he's a old ancient man, nigh ready forchurchyard--bean't 'ee, dad?"
"Not till I make a man on 'ee, boy."
"May I present my friend Sir Gilbert Young, sir?" said Frank Godolphin,coming up at this moment through the gathering crowd.
My lord bowed and swept off his hat in the courtly fashion of the day,in response to a still lower salutation from the young Cambridge man.
"I am honoured, my lord," said Sir Gilbert.
"My lard, i' fecks!" ejaculated Sherebiah's father, with a startledlook. "My lard,--an' I ha'n't even pulled my forelock! Boy, doff yourcap to my lard! And the Book says, 'They shall stand afore princes',and I'm a-sitten!"
The old fellow began to struggle to his feet with the aid of his staff,but Godolphin laid his hand on his arm, and pressed him down.
"Sit fast, gaffer," he said. "See, the players are coming out again. Iam pleased to have met one of Noll's veterans so hale and hearty, and Ihope your son will turn out as great a comfort to you as mine."
He put his arm fondly through Frank's, and returned to his carriage.The crowd was collecting about the rope, and the Cambridge men werealready taking their places in the field. Their score of a hundred washigher than the average in those days, and the villagers were eagerlydiscussing the chances of their team excelling it. They had seen nothingof the other side's bowling powers, but as they compared notes on thevarious merits as batsmen of Honest John, and Long Robin, and Lumpy, andthe rest, many of them shook their heads and looked rather down in themouth.
The first pair of batsmen came to the wickets. They were OldEverlasting and Soapy Dick. The former took the first over, bowled byGilbert Young, the captain of the team, and calmly blocked every ball ofthe four, giving a wink to his friends in the crowd when over wascalled. Soapy Dick, at the other wicket, was a little man with very redhair brushed up into a sort of top-knot in front. He handled his bat ina nervous manner, and was made still more nervous by the cries of thecrowd.
"Hit un, Soapy!" cried one yokel. "Doan't be afeard, man."
"Gi't lather, Soapy!" shouted another, whose cheeks cried out for thebarber's attentions.
Dick grinned mirthlessly, and fixed his eyes on the bowler at the otherend. The ball came towards him--a slow, tempting lob that was too easyto let pass. Dick lifted his bat and smote; the ball returned gently tothe bowler's hands, and a roar of derision sped the shame-faced littlebarber back to the tent. One wicket down, and no notches!--a badbeginning for Winton St. Mary.
Lumpy was the next to appear. He waddled across the grass turning uphis sleeves--a fat little fellow with bandy legs, and arms as thick asmost men's thighs. As he stood to take his block, he seemed to handlethe bat with contemptuous surprise, as though wondering what use thatwas to a man accustomed to wield the sledgehammer at the anvil.Satisfied with his position, he planted his feet firmly, drew his lefthand across his mouth, and glared fiercely at the bowler. He was not tobe so easily tempted as poor Soapy Dick had been. He waited for theball, and as it rose brought his bat down upon it with a perpendicularblow that appeared to drive it into the turf, where it lay dead. TheCambridge men roared with laughter, the crowd applauded vigorously, andLumpy once more wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The third ballof the over came, pitching slightly to leg. Lumpy jumped completelyround as the ball reached him, and with a tremendous swipe sent it highover long-stop's head into a patch of gorse, whence it was not recovereduntil he had had three notches cut to his credit. The last ball of theover thus came to Old Everlasting, who solemnly blocked it, and beamedupon the spectators with his usual smug smile.
Lumpy had but a short life, after all. There was no cunning about him;if he hit a ball it was bound to travel far, but he struck out everytime with the same violence, and when he missed could hardly recover hisbalance. In twenty minutes he had scored eleven notches, OldEverlasting having consistently done nothing but block the balls thatfell to him; then, in hitting out, Lumpy, never too steady on his bowleg's, overbalanced himself and fell flat, and the long bail waspromptly knocked off by the wicket-keeper. Two wickets down for eleven.
After this, disaster followed disaster in such rapid succession that thevillagers looked blue. Long Robin the tanner was caught second ball,and was afterwards heard complaining bitterly of the bad leather theball was made of. Tom the cobbler came to the wicket with a bat of hisown--one that he kept hanging behind his kitchen door, and took downevery week for a thorough greasing. He scored six notches, then hit aball into his wicket, and in the tent afterwards explained to hiscronies that another week's greasing would have prevented the accident.Four wickets were now down for seventeen, and Godfrey Fanshawe himselfcame in, amid a great outburst of cheers from the crowd, with whom hewas very popular, and who looked to him, as the originator of the matchand the captain of the team, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. Hesnicked his first ball for one; then Old Everlasting evoked intenseenthusiasm by poking a ball between slip and point, and scoring hisfirst notch. The score rose slowly to thirty-one, Fanshawe making allthe runs, and then he ran himself out in trying to snatch an extra froman overthrow. The fifth wicket was down. Fanshawe was reputed the bestbatsman in the team, and Winton St. Mary was still sixty-nine behind.There was much shaking of the head among the villagers, and they waitedin glum silence for the next man to appear.
"Look 'ee!" exclaimed the old trooper suddenly, "beant that old Squirea-comen down-along by covert fence?"
"True, Gaffer Minshull," said a by-stander; "what eyes 'ee've got, for aold ancient soul! 'Tis old Squire sure enough, and young Squire and theCap'n wi' un."
Old Minshull leant forward on his stick, and with pursed lips peered atthe three figures approaching. One was a burly man in the prime oflife, dressed in semi-military garb--a feathered hat, long red coatmarked with many stains and wanting some buttons, leather breeches, andspurred boots. His features were coarse and red, his eyes prominent andblood-shot; he walked with a swagger, his left hand on his sword-hilt.The second was a youth of some twenty years, dressed in the extremity offoppishness. A black hat, looped up and cocked over one eye, crowned afull auburn wig fastidiously curled. The coat was blue, the waistcoatpurple, open to display a fine holland shirt. A laced steinkirk wastucked in at the breast. The breeches matched the vest, the stockingswere of red silk, the shoes had high red heels and large silver buckles.In Mr. Piers Berkeley's mouth was a toothpick; from one of the buttonsof his coat dangled an amber-headed cane.
The third figure was a striking contrast to the others. He was tall andthin and bent, with pale wrinkled cheeks and bushy white eyebrows thatill matched his dark wig. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the ground ashe moved slowly along, leaning heavily upon a silver-knobbed stick. Hisdress was fusty and of a bygone mode; to a Londoner the old man musthave resembled a figure out of a picture of Charles the Second's time.
"Who's this queer old put ambling along, Frank?" asked my lord. "Therascals there avoid him as he had the plague."
"On my life I don't know, sir," replied Mr. Godolphin. "The fellow withhim might stand for Bobadil himself."
"Or for Captain Bluffe in Mr. Congreve's play."
"And the young sprig wants a kicking."
"Sarvant, my lord," put in Sherebiah, who was standing by; "'tis oldSquire, and young Squire, and---- No, I won't say 't; a wise head keepsa still tongue; I won't say 't, leastways when a fowl o' the air medcarry it where 'twould do me and feyther o' mine no manner o' good."
The crowd parted with a kind of sullen unwilling respect to make way forthe new-comers. Suddenly the squire paused, as the elder of his twocompanions addressed him; flashing an angry glance at him, he said a fewvehement words in a low tone that no one else could hea
r. Captain RalphAglionby laughed aloud, shrugged carelessly, and sauntered across thecommon towards the tent. The squire followed him with a dark glance fora moment, then resumed his slow progress with his son, and came towithin a few feet of Lord Godolphin's carriage.
"Your lordship's servant," he said with a profound bow, copied withelaborate elegance by his son. His voice was thin and hard, a voicethat set the teeth on edge. "I heard your lordship was on the ground,and made bold to come and pay my duty to your lordship."
"I am vastly beholden to you, Mr.----"
"Berkeley, my lord, Nicolas Berkeley of Winton Hall; and would yourlordship but favour me, I should be proud, when the match is over, tooffer your lordship a cover at my table--poor country fare, I fear, butsuch as it is, freely at your lordship's disposal."
"'Tis handsome of you, Mr. Berkeley, but I fear our business will notpermit us to accept of your hospitality.--Ah! I perceive the nextbatsman is coming to the wicket. I hope you're as keen a sportsman as Iam myself, and will forgive me if I fix my attention on the game."
Mr. Berkeley bowed again with expressionless face, and after a moment'sirresolution moved away. Gaffer Minshull might have been observed tolick his old lips with appreciation at this the very courtliest of coldshoulders. Piers Berkeley, the young squire, stayed for a minute or two,gazing with silly face at my lord; then, finding that he remainedunnoticed, he stuck the head of his cane into his mouth and walked awaysucking it.
The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The newbatsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked everyball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the sameboundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in thelong field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more thanforty-five.
"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin.
"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?"
"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake,"said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?"
"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; toorich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly."
"A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well ashe bowls?"
"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but adeal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. Butthere, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as youmed say."
"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a prettylad. Gi' un a cheer, souls."
"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-alongthis way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say."
"True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n'tthink it. Well!"
But though Gaffer Minshull forbore to cheer, the rest of the crowd hadno scruples, and the warmth of their greeting brought a flush to the newbatsman's honest face. He stood at the wicket with quiet ease andwatched Old Everlasting block the last ball of the over; then he glancedaround, stooped to his bat, and fixed his gray eyes steadily on thebowler.
The rest of the afternoon provided an unfailing subject for gossip inthe village for six months afterwards. Playing at first with patientwariness, Harry never let a ball pass his bat, but treated all with arespectful consideration that was as noticeable as his graceful style.He played two overs without getting a notch; then, after anotherexcellent blocking performance by his partner, came a change. The firstball of the next over was rather loose; Lord Godolphin, who, perhapsalone of the spectators, kept his gaze fixed on the batsman's face, sawhis lips come together with a slight pressure and his eyes suddenlygleam--and there was the ball, flying straight over the bowler's head,passing between two coaches into the road. Gaffer Minshull was on thepoint of raising his stick to wave it, but was stopped by his son with a"Mind old Squire, feyther o' mine."
"Varty-vive and vour makes varty-nine," muttered the old man. "I coulddo a bit o' cipheren in my time. Ay, varty-nine."
Nothing came of the next ball, but the third rose most happily toHarry's bat, and with a neat little cut he sent it under the rope amongthe crowd, who nimbly parted to let it roll. Three notches were cut tohis credit. Old Everlasting complacently blocked the next ball, andHarry treated the bowler at the other end with great respect till thefourth ball, which he snicked away for a single. Getting back thus tothe wicket at which he had started, he delighted the spectators bydriving every ball of the over, at the close of which the score hadrisen to sixty-three.
"'Tis the eye doos it," said the old man delightedly; "Master Harryhas'n clear an' steady. Ay sure, a' would ha' made a good captain forNoll Crum'ell; if so be he's a pa'son, all the use he can make o' hiseye, 'twill be to tarrify poor sinners like you an' me, my lard."
But misfortune was in store for the Winton St. Mary men. OldEverlasting had the first ball of the next over, delivered by a newbowler, a lanky fellow with a tremendous pace, for whom two long-stopswere placed. The batsman was taken by surprise; he missed the ball, thestumps went flying, and Old Everlasting walked away scratching his poll,rejoicing in the magnificent score of one. Harry accompanied him to thetent, and held a short conversation with the next man. The fruit ofthis was seen as soon as they reached the wickets. The first ballmissed bat, stumps, wicket-keeper, and both long-stops; Harry called hispartner for a bye, and though there was plenty of time for a second runhe was contented with a single, thus securing the next ball. This hehit round to leg, a stroke that ought to have made two, but his partnerwas somewhat bulky, and suffered for his misfortune by being promptlyrun out after one run had been scored.
Eight wickets were now down, and the score was sixty-five--thirty-fivebehind that of the Cambridge eleven. A restlessness was observable inthe crowd; it seemed impossible that the home team could win; and therewas general despondency when it was noticed that the incoming batsmanwas a spindle-legged fellow known as Soft Jemmy, who did odd jobs aboutthe village. Only Sherebiah still appeared full of confidence.
"A fight bean't lost till it be won," he said. "Keep up your sperits,souls."
Soft Jemmy never got a chance to miss the ball. Such scheming was neverseen on a cricket-field before. Harry had privately instructed Jemmy todo just as he was told, and the half-witted youth at least knew how toobey. When Harry called him he ran; when told to stand in his ground heremained fixed like a post; and so, snatching byes, blocking, hittingwhen it was safe, Harry defied all the bowling, and the score rose byones and twos and threes. A change came over the attitude of thespectators. From dejection they passed to almost delirious joy. Everyhit was cheered to the echo; every little manoeuvre of "young pa'son"added to their delight. The effect on the out side was equal andopposite. They became irritated at the altered aspect of the game.Bowlers bowled wildly; fieldsmen fielded loosely, and got in oneanother's way; and the more agitated they became, the more coolly andconfidently did Harry ply his bat. At last, stepping out to a fullpitch, he made a magnificent drive over the bowler's head, and broughtthe total to a hundred and two.
The cheer that rose from the crowd might have been heard a mile away.Some of the men made a rush for Harry, and bore him shoulder-high to thetent. Others flew to secure their winnings, and celebrate the famousvictory in cider or home-brewed ale. Gaffer Minshull was withdifficulty dissuaded from whirling his hat round on the top of hisstick, and nothing could check his gleeful exclamation:
"A flick to young Squire; a terrible douse, ay sure!"
"By George, a notable match!" said Godolphin. "Your young parson is alad of mettle, gaffer; he'll be a sportsman an he lives long enough.Here, man, drink his health, and tell him from me that the LordTreasurer loves pretty play. Come, Frank, we'll drive on."
He flung a coin to the old man, remounted his carriage, and drove off.Gaffer looked at the money, then after the calash.
"Ah, 'tis a mighty fine thing to hold the Que
en's purse, my lads, mightyfine! There be a power o' these same shinen bright ones in the Queen'spurse; eh, lads?"
A shout came from the distance, and the eyes of the small group aroundold Minshull were turned towards the road. Lord Godolphin's carriagehad broken down. The axle had snapped in two; the horses were plunging,and my lord and his son were clinging to the sides of the vehicle. Ascore of sturdy fellows rushed to lend a hand, and Gaffer Minshull wasleft to himself.