[11]
POETRY AND STUMP-CRICKET
The Old Beckfordians' match came off in due season, and Pringle enjoyedit thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings,he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the School had ahundred and twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first withMarriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the School a tenwickets victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form.He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J.R. Smith,whose fag he had been in the old days. When at School, Smith had alwaysbeen singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found thatmuch pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling.Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictlyspeaking, good for him, and did the honours at the study tea-party withthe grace of a born host. And, as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer_did_ ask what that silver-plate was stuck on to that bat for.
It is not to be wondered at that in the midst of these festivities suchtrivialities as Lorimer's poem found no place in his thoughts. It wasnot until the following day that he was reminded of it.
That Sunday was a visiting Sunday. Visiting Sundays occurred threetimes a term, when everybody who had friends and relations in theneighbourhood was allowed to spend the day with them. Pringle on suchoccasions used to ride over to Biddlehampton, the scene of Farnie'sadventures, on somebody else's bicycle, his destination being theresidence of a certain Colonel Ashby, no relation, but a great friendof his father's.
The gallant Colonel had, besides his other merits--which werenumerous--the pleasant characteristic of leaving his guests tothemselves. To be left to oneself under some circumstances is apt to bea drawback, but in this case there was never any lack of amusements.The only objection that Pringle ever found was that there was too muchto do in the time. There was shooting, riding, fishing, and alsostump-cricket. Given proper conditions, no game in existence yields tostump-cricket in the matter of excitement. A stable-yard makes the bestpitch, for the walls stop all hits and you score solely by boundaries,one for every hit, two if it goes past the coach-room door, four to theend wall, and out if you send it over. It is perfect.
There were two junior Ashbys, twins, aged sixteen. They went to schoolat Charchester, returning to the ancestral home for the weekend.Sometimes when Pringle came they would bring a school friend, in whichcase Pringle and he would play the twins. But as a rule the programmeconsisted of a series of five test matches, Charchester _versus_Beckford; and as Pringle was almost exactly twice as good as each ofthe twins taken individually, when they combined it made the sides veryeven, and the test matches were fought out with the most deadlykeenness.
After lunch the Colonel was in the habit of taking Pringle for a strollin the grounds, to watch him smoke a cigar or two. On this Sunday theconversation during the walk, after beginning, as was right and proper,with cricket, turned to work.
'Let me see,' said the Colonel, as Pringle finished the description ofhow point had almost got to the square cut which had given him hiscentury against Charchester, 'you're out of the Upper Fifth now, aren'tyou? I always used to think you were going to be a fixture there. Youare like your father in that way. I remember him at Rugby spendingyears on end in the same form. Couldn't get out of it. But you did getyour remove, if I remember?'
'Rather,' said Pringle, 'years ago. That's to say, last term. And I'mjolly glad I did, too.'
His errant memory had returned to the poetry prize once more.
'Oh,' said the Colonel, 'why is that?'
Pringle explained the peculiar disadvantages that attended membershipof the Upper Fifth during the summer term.
'I don't think a man ought to be allowed to spend his money in thesespecial prizes,' he concluded; 'at any rate they ought to be Sixth Formaffairs. It's hard enough having to do the ordinary work and keep upyour cricket at the same time.'
'They are compulsory then?'
'Yes. Swindle, I call it. The chap who shares my study at Beckford isin the Upper Fifth, and his hair's turning white under the strain. Theworst of it is, too, that I've promised to help him, and I never seemto have any time to give to the thing. I could turn out a great poem ifI had an hour or two to spare now and then.'
'What's the subject?'
'Death of Dido this year. They are always jolly keen on deaths. Lastyear it was Cato, and the year before Julius Caesar. They seem to havevery morbid minds. I think they might try something cheerful for achange.'
'Dido,' said the Colonel dreamily. 'Death of Dido. Where have I heardeither a story or a poem or a riddle or something in some way connectedwith the death of Dido? It was years ago, but I distinctly rememberhaving heard somebody mention the occurrence. Oh, well, it will comeback presently, I dare say.'
It did come back presently. The story was this. A friend of ColonelAshby's--the one-time colonel of his regiment, to be exact--was anearnest student of everything in the literature of the country thatdealt with Sport. This gentleman happened to read in a publisher's listone day that a limited edition of _The Dark Horse_, by a Mr ArthurJames, was on sale, and might be purchased from the publisher by allwho were willing to spend half a guinea to that end.
'Well, old Matthews,' said the Colonel, 'sent off for this book.Thought it must be a sporting novel, don't you know. I shall neverforget his disappointment when he opened the parcel. It turned out tobe a collection of poems. _The Dark Horse, and Other Studies in theTragic_, was its full title.'
'Matthews never had a soul for poetry, good or bad. _The DarkHorse_ itself was about a knight in the Middle Ages, you know. Greatnonsense it was, too. Matthews used to read me passages from time totime. When he gave up the regiment he left me the book as a farewellgift. He said I was the only man he knew who really sympathized withhim in the affair. I've got it still. It's in the library somewhere, ifyou care to look at it. What recalled it to my mind was your mention ofDido. The second poem was about the death of Dido, as far as I canremember. I'm no judge of poetry, but it didn't strike me as being verygood. At the same time, you might pick up a hint or two from it. Itought to be in one of the two lower shelves on the right of the door asyou go in. Unless it has been taken away. That is not likely, though.We are not very enthusiastic poetry readers here.'
Pringle thanked him for his information, and went back to thestable-yard, where he lost the fourth test match by sixteen runs, owingto preoccupation. You can't play a yorker on the leg-stump with a thinwalking-stick if your mind is occupied elsewhere. And the leg-stumpyorkers of James, the elder (by a minute) of the two Ashbys, wereachieving a growing reputation in Charchester cricket circles.
One ought never, thought Pringle, to despise the gifts which Fortunebestows on us. And this mention of an actual completed poem on the verysubject which was in his mind was clearly a gift of Fortune. How muchbetter it would be to read thoughtfully through this poem, and quarryout a set of verses from it suitable to Lorimer's needs, than to wastehis brain-tissues in trying to evolve something original from his owninner consciousness. Pringle objected strongly to any unnecessary wasteof his brain-tissues. Besides, the best poets borrowed. Virgil did it.Tennyson did it. Even Homer--we have it on the authority of MrKipling--when he smote his blooming lyre went and stole what he thoughthe might require. Why should Pringle of the School House refuse tofollow in such illustrious footsteps?
It was at this point that the guileful James delivered his insidiousyorker, and the dull thud of the tennis ball on the board which servedas the wicket told a listening world that Charchester had won thefourth test match, and that the scores were now two all.
But Beckford's star was to ascend again. Pringle's mind was made up. Hewould read the printed poem that very night, and before retiring torest he would have Lorimer's verses complete and ready to be sent infor judgement to the examiner. But for the present he would dismiss thematter from his mind, and devote himself to polishing off theCharchester champions in the fifth and final test match. And in this hewas successful, for just a
s the bell rang, summoning the players in toa well-earned tea, a sweet forward drive from his walking-stick crashedagainst the end wall, and Beckford had won the rubber.
'As the young batsman, undefeated to the last, reached the pavilion,'said Pringle, getting into his coat, 'a prolonged and deafening salvoof cheers greeted him. His twenty-three not out, compiled as it wasagainst the finest bowling Charchester could produce, and on a wicketthat was always treacherous (there's a brick loose at the top end), wasan effort unique in its heroism.'
'Oh, _come_ on,' said the defeated team.
'If you have fluked a win,' said James, 'it's nothing much. Wait tillnext visiting Sunday.'
And the teams went in to tea.
In the programme which Pringle had mapped out for himself, he was to goto bed with his book at the highly respectable hour of ten, work tilleleven, and then go to sleep. But programmes are notoriously subject toalterations. Pringle's was altered owing to a remark made immediatelyafter dinner by John Ashby, who, desirous of retrieving the fallenfortunes of Charchester, offered to play Pringle a hundred up atbilliards, giving him thirty. Now Pringle's ability in the realm ofsport did not extend to billiards. But the human being who can hearunmoved a fellow human being offering him thirty start in a game of ahundred has yet to be born. He accepted the challenge, and permissionto play having been granted by the powers that were, on theunderstanding that the cloth was not to be cut and as few cues brokenas possible, the game began, James acting as marker.
There are doubtless ways by which a game of a hundred up can be gotthrough in less than two hours, but with Pringle and his opponentdesire outran performance. When the highest break on either side issix, and the average break two, matters progress with more statelinessthan speed. At last, when the hands of the clock both pointed to thefigure eleven, Pringle, whose score had been at ninety-eight sincehalf-past ten, found himself within two inches of his opponent's ball,which was tottering on the very edge of the pocket. He administered the_coup de grace_ with the air of a John Roberts, and retiredtriumphant; while the Charchester representatives pointed out that astheir score was at seventy-four, they had really won a moral victory byfour points. To which specious and unsportsmanlike piece of sophistryPringle turned a deaf ear.
It was now too late for any serious literary efforts. No bard can dowithout his sleep. Even Homer used to nod at times. So Pringlecontented himself with reading through the poem, which consisted ofsome thirty lines, and copying the same down on a sheet of notepaperfor future reference. After which he went to bed.
In order to arrive at Beckford in time for morning school, he had tostart from the house at eight o'clock punctually. This left little timefor poetical lights. The consequence was that when Lorimer, on thefollowing afternoon, demanded the poem as per contract, all thatPringle had to show was the copy which he had made of the poem in thebook. There was a moment's suspense while Conscience and SheerWickedness fought the matter out inside him, and then Conscience, whichhad started on the encounter without enthusiasm, being obviously flabbyand out of condition, threw up the sponge.
'Here you are,' said Pringle, 'it's only a rough copy, but here it_is_.'
Lorimer perused it hastily.
'But, I say,' he observed in surprised and awestruck tones, 'this israther good.'
It seemed to strike him as quite a novel idea. 'Yes, not bad, is it?'
'But it'll get the prize.'
'Oh, we shall have to prevent that somehow.'
He did not mention how, and Lorimer did not ask.
'Well, anyhow,' said Lorimer, 'thanks awfully. I hope you've not faggedabout it too much.'
'Oh no,' said Pringle airily, 'rather not. It's been no trouble atall.'
He thus, it will be noticed, concluded a painful and immoral scene byspeaking perfect truth. A most gratifying reflection.