Shame and Consciences
adapted by Mihangel
22. The Old Boys' Match
Founder's Day was mercifully fine. A hot sun lit up the scene outside the colonnade, where the Old Boys assembled before the special service with which the day began, and greeted each other to the cheerful peal of the chapel bells. Most of the hardy annual faces were there, with here and there a bronzed one not to be seen every year, but a good sprinkling of young ones as smooth as the other day when they left the school. These were the men of fashion, coming down at last in any clothes they liked; among them Bruce, last year's captain, and Stratten his wicket-keeper, who was also a friend of Jan's.
Under the straw hats with the famous ribbons were Swallow and Wilman, who never looked a day older, and the great Charles Cave who did. It was his first appearance as an Old Boy, and perhaps only due to the fact that his young brother was playing for the school. Charles Cave wore a Zingari ribbon and a Quidnunc tie and the Cambridge sash around his waist. He looked down his aristocratic nose at what he heard of the Eleven and of the captain's bowling. Fancy that young Rutter being in at all, let alone captain! Fine bowler his first year? So were lots of them, but how many lasted? It was the old story, and Charles Cave looked the Methuselah of cricket as he shook his handsome head.
But the captain's bowling was not the worst of it. They said his actual captaincy was just as bad, and that he was frightfully barred by the team. Of course he never had been quite the man for the job, whatever young Stratten chose to say. Stratten would stick up for anybody, especially in his own house, but he would soon see for himself. And what about these measles? A regular outbreak, apparently, within the last week, fresh cases every day, among others the best bat in the school, that young Sandham, no less. Hard luck? Scarcely worth playing the match, with such a jolly good lot of Old Boys down. So the tongues wagged, and with them those cheerful chapel bells, until one was left ringing more sedately by itself, and the Old Boys filed in and up to their prominent places at the top of the right-hand aisle.
Evan Devereux, always a musical member of a very musical school, sat in the choir in full view of the young men of all ages, but might not have known they were there. It was not the pretended indifference of one only too conscious that they were there, and who they all were, and which of them were going to play in the match. Evan might have felt that he ought to be playing against them, that only a brute with a spite against him would have left him out. But he did not seem to be thinking of that now. He did not look bitter or contemptuous; he did look worried and distracted. Anyone might have noticed that he seldom turned a page or remembered to open his mouth. Anyone might have seen that he was miserable, but no one could possibly have guessed why.
Neither did Jan when he chased Evan to his study immediately after chapel.
"It's all right, Evan! You've got to play, if you don't mind!"
"Who says so?" cried Evan, swinging round.
Of course it was not his old study, but it was just as dark inside, like all the Lodge studies leading straight out into the quad; and Jan naturally misread the angry tone, missing altogether its note of alarm.
"I do, of course. I was awfully sorry ever to leave you out, but what else was I to do? Thank goodness you've got your chance again, and I only hope you'll make a century!"
Jan, ever the weathercock where Evan was involved, was already swinging towards enthusiasm. Any residual ill-will, all the reflex resentment of an unpopular character, was evaporating. His delight on his friend's behalf was well on the way to restoring his self-confidence.
"Then I'll see if I can't bowl a bit," he added, "and between us we'll make Charles Cave & Co sit up!"
"I -- I don't think I'm awfully keen on playing, thank you," said Evan, in a wavering voice of would-be stiffness.
"You are!"
"I'm not, really, thanks all the same."
"But you can't refuse to play for the school, just because I was obliged --"
"It isn't that!" snapped Evan without thinking. It was too late to recall it, and he did not try. He stood there, silent and desperate. "I thought I wasn't even twelfth man?" he sneered at last.
"Well, as a matter of fact --" Jan had not the heart to agree outright.
"I thought Norgate had got Sandham's place?"
"So he had. I couldn't help it, Evan. I really couldn't. But now Norgate has got measles too, and you've simply got to come in instead. You will, Evan! Of course you will, and I'll bowl twice as well for having you on the side. I simply hated leaving you out. But there's life in the old dog yet, and I'll let 'em know it, and so will you!"
His hand flew out spontaneously. To no one else would he have been so unreserved, but he had described himself more accurately than he knew. Evan always awakened the faithful old hound in Jan, as Jerry Thrale stirred the lion in him, Haigh the mule, and sane Bob Heriot the mere man. We all hit each other in different places. But it was only Evan who had found Jan's softest spot, and therefore only Evan who could hurt him as he did now.
"Oh, all right, I'll play! Anything to oblige, I'm sure! But there's nothing to shake hands about, is there?"
So history repeated itself and exaggerated itself. But it was a long time before Jan thought of that. Even then he was not angry with himself, as he had been four years before. He was far too hurt to be angry with anybody. And in that old dog, after all, there was very little life that day.
Jan went through the preliminaries to the match, which generally gave him visible embarrassment, with a casual unconcern that was even less admirable. He only realised he had lost the toss when he found himself mechanically leading his men into the field. All that time he had been thinking of Evan. But now he took himself in hand, set his field and in a fit of desperation opened the bowling himself. It was no good. He had lost the art. That fatal new leg-break of his was an expensive present to such batsmen as Cave and Wilman. The soft wicket was still too slow for the off-break. They could step back to it and place it for a single every time. After three overs Jan took himself off, and watched the rest of the innings from various positions in the field.
It lasted well into the afternoon, when the wicket turned crusty and one of the change bowlers took advantage of it, subsequently receiving his colours for a very creditable performance. It was the younger Cave, and he had taken the last five wickets for under thirty runs. His gifted brother had taken just enough trouble to contribute an elegant 29 out of 47 for the first wicket; the celebrated Swallow had batted up to his great reputation for three-quarters of an hour; and Swiller Wilman, who played serious cricket with a misleading chuckle, would certainly have achieved his usual century but for the collapse of the Old Boys' rearguard. He carried his bat through the innings for 83 out of 212, but was good enough to thank Jan, to whom he had been delightful all day.
"If you'd gone on again after lunch," said Wilman, "I believe you'd have made much shorter work of us. I was jolly glad you didn't -- but you shouldn't take a bad streak too seriously, Rutter. It'll all come back before you know where you are."
Jan shook a hopeless head, but he was grateful for Wilman's friendliness. It had made three or four hours in the field pass quicker than in previous matches. It had even affected the attitude of the rest of the Eleven towards him -- or Jan thought it had -- because the Swiller was undoubtedly the most popular personality, man or boy, upon the ground. Jan was none the less thankful to write out the batting order and then to retire to a corner of the pavilion for the rest of the afternoon.
But that was not to be. The Fates, after robbing the school of its best batsman, now turned a slow wicket into a sticky one. Two wickets were down before double figures were up, and four for under 50. Then came a bit of a stand in which the younger Cave, who had his share of the family insolence, seized the chance of treating his big brother's bowling with spectacular disrespect. But it was not Charles Cave, despite his graceful action and his excellent length, who had been taking the wickets. It was A. G. Swallow. The pitch was just right for him. For over an hour he had the boys at his mercy until a passing shower made matters easier, and when Jan went in, seventh wicket down, there was just a chance of saving the follow-on, with 91 on the board and half an hour to go. Somehow he managed to survive that half-hour, and was not out 20 at close of play, when the score was 128 for nine.
At the Conversazione in the evening, he found that he still had some friends, who made too much not only of his little innings, but still more of his election to the Pilgrims during the day. The Pilgrims Cricket Club was the famous and exclusive Old Boys' club for which few were chosen out of each year's Eleven. This year the honour was reserved for Jan and the absent Sandham, and with his new colours worn in a transverse band between evening shirt and waistcoat, the fine awkward fellow was at the centre of the congratulations. Wilman was as pointedly nice as he had been in the field, after hearing in the morning of Jan's unpopularity. Stratten had never been anything else to anybody in his life, but he could not have been nicer about this if he had been a Pilgrim himself, instead of feeling rather sore that he was not one. A. G. Swallow pretended to see another good bowler degenerating into a batsman in accordance with his own bad example. And the other members of the present team very properly disguised their disgruntlement.
Only Evan Devereux, who had again failed to get into double figures, said nothing at all. He seemed so lost without Sandham, and so wretched when he was not laughing rather loud, that Jan was not altogether surprised at what happened next morning.
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