Shame and Consciences
adapted by Mihangel
24. The second morning
"By Jove!" exclaimed Carpenter in the scoring tent. "I haven't seen Jan do that for years. It used to mean that he was on the spot."
"He did it when he went in just now," said the polly who was scoring. "It only meant five more runs to him then."
"But those five saved the follow-on! I don't believe he meant to get any more."
"You don't suggest that he got out on purpose, Chips?"
"I shouldn't wonder. He told me the wicket would be just right for him when the heavy roller had been over it. By Jove, he's doing it again!"
What Jan had done, and was doing again, was something which had been chaffed out of him his first year in the Eleven. He was pulling the white cap trimmed with its honourably faded blue ribbon tight down over his head, so that his ears became unduly prominent and his back hair gaped transversely to the scalp.
The scorer remarked that he had better sharpen his pencil, and Chips retorted that he had better watch the over first. It was the first over of the Old Boys' second innings, and the redoubtable Swiller had already taken guard. Jan ran up to the wicket, with all his old clumsy precision but with more buoyancy and verve than he usually put into his run these days. And the Swiller's face broke into a good-humoured grin as the ball went thud into the wicket-keeper's gloves; it had beaten him completely. The next one he played. Off the third he scored a brisk single, and this brought Charles Cave to the striker's crease, with the air of the player who need never have got out in the first innings, and had half a mind not to do it again.
Curious to find that in those days there were only four balls to the over, but such was the case. And the fourth and last ball of Jan's first over in a memorable innings has a long line to itself in the report in the Magazine. It was his own old patent, irreproachable in length, but pitching well outside the off-stump, and whipping in like lightning. It sent Charles Cave's leg-bail flying, if we believe the report, over thirty yards. What the reporter does not state, though he noticed it at the time, is that Jan had given the peak of his cap a special tweak.
"Bowled, sir, bowled indeed!" roared Chips from the tent. "I knew it'd be a trimmer. Didn't you fellows see how he pulled down his cap?"
The great Charles Cave stalked back to the pavilion with the nonchalant dignity of a Greek statue put into flannels. But at the pavilion fence he had a word to say to the next batsman, already emerging with indecent haste.
The next batsman was one of the bronzed brigade who could not grace the old ground every season. This one had been in the Eleven two years in his time, and had since made prodigious scores in regimental cricket in India. But in the first innings his lack of practice had showed up and he had failed to score. This time he had to watch Swiller Wilman play an over from young Cave with ease, scoring three off the last ball, and then playing a maiden from Jan with more pains than confidence. The gallant soldier did indeed draw blood, with a sweeping swipe in the following over from the younger Cave. But the first ball he had from Jan was also his last, and the very next one was too much for ex-captain Bruce.
"I told you it'd all come back, Rutter," said Wilman with a wry laugh at the bowler's end. "I'm sorry I prophesied quite so soon."
"It's the wicket," Jan explained genuinely enough. "I always liked a wicket like this -- the least bit less than fast -- but you've got its pace to a nicety."
"I wish I had yours. You're making them come as quick off the pitch as you did two years ago. I wish old Boots Ommaney was here again."
"I'd rather have him to bowl to than the next man in. Ommaney always plays like a book, but Swallow's the man to knock you off your length in the first over!"
Swallow looked just that as he came in grinning, with a sunny storm-light in his skilled eyes. It was capital fun to find this boy suddenly at his best again -- good for the boy, better for the Eleven, and by no means bad for an old man of thirty-eight who was on the point of turning out once more for the Gentlemen at Lord's. But practice and the bowler apart, it would never do for the Old Boys to go to pieces, not after leading a rather weak school Eleven as it was only proper that they should. It was time for a stand. And a stand was made.
But A. G. Swallow did not knock Jan off his length. He played him with flattering care and was content to make his runs off Cave. Jan made a change at the other end, but went on pegging away himself. Wilman began to treat him with less respect. In club cricket there were few sounder or more consistent players than the Swiller. He watched the ball on to the very middle of a perpendicular bat, and played the one that came with Jan's arm so near to his left leg that there was no room for it between bat and pad. And he played it so hard that with luck it went to the boundary without really being hit at all.
Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, went up ever more rapidly. Jan was trying all he knew, and now he had Cave back at the other end. Another ten or so, and he felt that he himself must take a rest, especially as Swallow was beginning to hit ruthlessly all round the wicket. Yet Wilman's was the wicket he most wanted, and it was on Wilman that he was trying all his wiles -- but one. That fatal leg-break was not in his repertoire for the day. He had forsworn it before taking the field, and he kept his vow. What he was trying to do was to pitch the off-break a little straighter, a fraction slower, and just about three inches shorter than all the rest. At last he did it to perfection. Wilman played forward pretty hard, the ball came skimming between the bowler and mid-off, and Jan shot out his left hand. The ball hit it in the right place, his fingers closed automatically, and he had made a very clever catch off his own bowling.
"Well caught, old fellow!" cried Evan from mid-off. "I was afraid I'd baulked you."
The others were loud in their congratulations, and the field rang with cheers. But Evan kept Jan buttonholed at mid-off, and they had a whisper together while the new batsman was on his way out.
"What about bowling them all out by lunch? You might almost do it after all!"
"I mean to, now."
"Six wickets in three quarters of an hour?"
"But there isn't another Wilman or Swallow."
"We shan't get him in a hurry."
"Even if we don't, I believe I can run through the rest."
"You're a wonder!" Evan drew still nearer and dropped his voice. "I say, Jan!"
"What is it? There's a man in."
"If you did get them, I might still go by myself this afternoon."
"Rot!"
"I'd have time if you put me in as late as I deserve. I can fight my own battle. I --"
"Shut up, will you? Man in!"
The telegraph now read 65 for 4, last man 33. Two overs later it was 79 for 5, last man 2.
The new batsman had succumbed to Jan after an airy couple through the slips, but Swallow had begun to force the game. He did not say it was his only chance. He was too old a hand to discuss casualties with the enemy. He kept his own counsel in the now frequent intervals, but his eyes sparkled with appreciation of the attack (from one end) and with zest in the exercise of his own powers. Such a combination of attack and defence had not been demanded of him for some time; and yet for all his preoccupation he had a fatherly eye on the young bowler who was taxing his resources. Really, on his day, the boy was good enough to bowl for almost any side, and he seemed quite a nice boy too, though perhaps a little rough. There was no sign of unpopularity now. That good-looking little chap at mid-off seemed pretty fond of him, and he was not the only one. At the fall of each wicket a bigger and more enthusiastic band surrounded the bowler, the cheers were louder from every side. If an unpopular fellow could achieve this popular success, well, it said all the more for his pluck and personality.
Eight wickets were down for 95, and Jan had taken every one of them, before Stratten stayed with Swallow for another stand. Stratten was only a moderate bat, but he had been two years in the team with Jan and three years in the same house, and he knew how to throw his left leg across to the ball that looked as though it wanted cutting. He had never made 30 runs off Jan in a game, and he did not make 10 to-day, but he stayed while the score rose to 130 and the clock crept round to 1.15. Then he spoilt Jan's chance of all ten wickets by being caught off a half-volley from Goose, last hope at the other end.
A. G. Swallow had crossed before the catch was made, and he trotted straight up to Jan in the slips.
"Hard luck, Rutter! I hoped you were going to set a new school record."
"I don't care as long as we get you all out before lunch."
Jan was wiping sweat off his forehead, and only saw his mistake when Swallow looked at him with a smile.
"Why before lunch, with the afternoon before us?"
"Because I feel dead," exclaimed Jan with unusual presence of mind. "I could go on now till I drop, but I feel more like lying up than lunch."
"Not measles, I hope?" Certainly Jan looked very red.
"Had 'em."
Swallow turned to George Grimwood the umpire, who looked as proud as if he had taught Jan all he knew. "I've often noticed that one does one's best things when one isn't absolutely fighting fit, and I've heard lots of fellows say the same."
Now George Grimwood was a professional cricketer of high achievement, but he was also, now, a school umpire, and his original impartiality had not entirely resisted the temptations of that subtly demoralising role. Not only did he give himself undue credit for Mr Rutter's remarkable performance, but he grudged Mr Goose that last wicket far more than Jan did. All morning he had cherished one hope which was not yet dead. He longed to see Mr Swallow, his old opponent in many a first-class match, succumb to his young colt. But now there was little chance of it, with only one more over before lunch, especially if Mr Rutter was really going to lie up afterwards.
What happened next may have been the correct verdict, but as the climax of a great performance it was not altogether satisfactory. Whitfield, the last batsman, clubbed the first ball of Jan's last over for three. The next ball may or may not have been on the off-stump. It seemed to come from a tired arm, to lack the sting of previous deliveries, to be rather slower and just short of a good length. But Swallow came out to hit a straight half-volley on the strength of the usual break. He missed the ball, and it hit his pad. There was no appeal from the bowler: that was the great point against George Grimwood. Jan was giving his cap another tug over his nose when Evan appealed for him from mid-off.
"Out!" roared Grimwood without an instant's hesitation. The Old Boys' second innings had closed for 135. Jan had taken 9 wickets for 41 runs. And A. G. Swallow was last out for 57 -- if out at all, but only his eye betrayed his opinion on the point.
The school was already streaming off the ground, on its way back to dinner in the houses. But many remained, and some turned back, to give batsman and bowler the reception they deserved. Praises pursued them to the dressing-room and ran like water off Jan's back as he sat stolidly changing his shoes. He explained his apparent ungraciousness by mentioning "a splitting head." But he had every one of his wits about him, and his immediate anxiety was to avoid Evan, whom he saw waiting to waylay him. It went against the grain to shun his company but, for the sake of his plans, he had to. Before leaving the pavilion he made a point of writing out the batting order, the same as before except that Jan promoted the last two men and wrote his own name last of all.
"I'll turn up if I can," he announced as he tacked himself on to Charles Cave, of all people, to Evan's final discomfiture. "But let's hope I shan't be wanted. Unless it's a case of watching the other fellow make the winning hit, I'll be as much use in my study as on the pitch."
Evan heard this as he walked as near them as he could. The narrow street was a running river of men and boys with glistening foreheads, who hugged the shadows and shrank ungratefully from the first hot sunshine of the term. Charles Cave, stalking indolently next the wall, said he hoped Jan was going up to the Varsity, as they wanted bowlers there, and a man who could bowl like that would stand a good chance of his Blue at either Oxford or Cambridge. Jan replied that he was afraid he was not going to either, but to the Colonies, a scheme which Cave seemed to think so deplorable that Evan dropped out of earshot, feeling that the conversation was taking a private turn. And sure enough it took one that surprised Jan himself almost as much as it did Charles Cave.
"Beggars can't be choosers," said Jan with apparent deliberation, but really on a sudden impulse. "You see, you don't know what it is to be a beggar, Cave!"
"I don't, I'm glad to say."
"Well, I do, and it's rather awkward when you're captain of the Eleven."
"It must be."
"It is. And if you could lend me a fiver, Cave, I'd promise to pay you back before the end of term."
The tone was so calm, matter-of-fact and everyday, that after a second's amazement Cave could only charitably assume that Jan's splitting head had already affected the mind inside it. That did not prevent him from refusing the monstrous request out of hand, and his refusal was received without surprise.
"After all, why should you?" asked Jan, with a strange chuckle. "But I shall have to raise it somewhere, and I daresay you won't tell anybody that I tried you first."
Before Cave could answer, Jan had turned into Heath's, the saddlery shop where the boys ordered flies to take them to their trains at the end of term. The fly that Jan now ordered was to be outside Mr Heriot's quad at 2.45 that afternoon.
"Is it to go to Molton, sir?"
"That's it."
"But there's no train before the 4.10, Mr Rutter."
"I can't help that. I was asked to order it for some people who're down for the match. They may be going to see some of the sights of the country first."
Outside the shop he found Evan waiting for him.
"I say, Jan, what's all this about your being seedy?"
"That's my business. Do you think I'm shamming?"
Evan missed the twinkle again. There was some excuse for him, for it was unintentional now.
"I don't know, but if I thought you were going yourself --"
"Shut up, Evan! It's all settled. You go in fourth wicket down again, and mind you make some."
"But if you're seen --"
"What on earth makes you think I'm going? I've fixed up the whole thing. That should be good enough. I thought you left it to me?"
At Heriot's corner, old Bob himself was talking to Mr Haigh, the two of them mechanically returning the salutes of the passing stream of boys. Charles Cave paused a moment before going on into the house.
"I'm afraid the hero of the morning's a bit off-colour, Mr Heriot."
"Not Rutter?"
Cave nodded. "He says his head's bad. It looks to me like a touch of the sun."
"I hope not," said Heriot as Cave passed on. "He really is a fine fellow, Haigh, as well as a fine bowler. I sometimes think you might forget what he was, after all these years."
"Oh, I've nothing against the fellow," said Haigh grandly. "But I take a boy as I find him, and I found Rutter the most infernal nuisance I ever had in my form."
"Years ago!"
"Well, there's no question of a grudge on my side. I wouldn't condescend to bear a grudge against a boy."
Haigh spoke as though he meant it. His principles were as sound as his heart could be kind, but both were influenced by a temper never meant for schoolmastering. At this moment Jan hove into sight. Heriot questioned him about his head, reassured himself that he really had had measles, and agreed with Jan's suggestion that he should stay quietly in his study until he felt fit to go back to the ground. He did not want any lunch.
Meanwhile, Haigh had stayed to put in a word of his own, as though to prove the truth of what he had told Heriot.
"By the way, Rutter, I've a very good prescription for that kind of thing, now I think of it. I'll send it up to you if you like."
"Oh, thank you, sir."
"You shall have it as soon as they can make it up. They've probably kept a copy at the chemist's. I'll go in and see."
Jan, embarrassed, could only thank his old enemy again. He did not like malingering. But, if he was to do the deed which he could depute to no one else, there were worse things in front of him. It was more than risky. But it could be done, and the greatest obstacle was not the risk, but money. And Jan had only eight shillings left.
He sat in his untidy study, listening to the sound of knives and forks and voices in the hall, and eyeing his few possessions which might conceivably be turned into ready cash. There were the four or five second and third prizes that he had won in the sports, and there was his mother's gold watch. He had worn it throughout his schooldays. It had struck him that nobody had ever asked him why he wore a lady's watch. But there were some things on which even a new boy's feelings were respected, now he came to think of it. And he came to think of too many things that had nothing to do with his present need. Of the other watch that he had won at the fair and sold for the very few shillings it would bring. Of the mad way he had thrown himself into that adventure, just as he was throwing himself into this one now. But it was no good raking up the past and comparing it with the present. Besides, there had been no sense in the risk he ran then. Now there was not only sense but necessity.
So absolute was Jan's necessity that he would not have hesitated to part with his precious watch, if only there had been a pawnbroker's shop within reach. But there was none in the little town, and there was no time to try the ordinary tradesmen, even if any of them was likely to oblige and to hold his tongue. Jan thought of Lloyd the jeweller, thought of George Grimwood and old Maltby, and was still only thinking when the quad filled under his window, the study passage creaked and clattered with boots, and Chips was heard demanding less noise in a far more authoritative voice than usual.
It was almost too much to hear poor old Chips steal like a mouse into his own study next door, to hear what he was doing, oh so quietly, and then to see the anxious face he poked into Jan's study before going back to the Upper. Chips left him his Saturday allowance of a shilling -- that made nine -- but it was no good consulting or trying to borrow from a chap who hated Evan so. Jan got rid of him by feigning a preposterous twitch of agony, and in a very few minutes had the studies to himself.
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