Willow the king : $b The story of a cricket match — John Shaqi
Willow the king : $b The story of a cricket matchSnaith, J. C. (John Collis)
General
Willow the king : $b The story of a cricket match
Snaith, J. C. (John Collis)
Cricket stories; England -- Fiction; Humorous stories
“I can tell you, sir,” said William, “that I’d rather lose my
perquisites than that this should have ’appened at Little Clumpton _v._
Hickory. But there’s the Winchester, and the Magdalen, and the M.C.C.
Couldn’t you get some in one of them, sir?”
“Daren’t risk it,” I said, “not at Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory. Yet,
let me see, hasn’t Mr. Thornhill one of the Authentics?”
“Why, Lor’ bless me, that he ’ave, sir!”
“Well, get your bike at once, give my compliments and kind regards to
Mr. Thornhill and tell him I’ve lost my Authentics and will he lend
me his. Explain that it’s Little Clumpton _v._ Hickory, and that I
can only get runs in the Authentics. It’s now eight-twenty, and it’s
eighteen miles to Mr. Thornhill’s place. Can you bring it to me by
eleven?”
“Well, sir, if I don’t, you’ll know I’ve burst a tyre.”
Within five minutes William was riding to Thornhill’s as if his life
depended on it, with the stable-boy to pace him.
CHAPTER III
LITTLE CLUMPTON _v._ HICKORY
I CAME down to the ground at a little after ten. The match was to
begin at eleven, sharp. The only sights of interest on my arrival were
the ground-man marking out the crease, and the Worry at the nets in a
brand-new outfit. The “pro” and three small boys were striving to knock
a shilling off his middle.
“You’re touching ’em pretty this morning, Daunton,” said I, out of pure
excellence of heart. I wished him to keep up his pecker.
“Think so?” he said nervously. “I’ve had an awful bad night, and I
believe there’s something the matter with my wrist. I wish I wasn’t
playing.”
The Worry’s life was a burden to him on match days. When he went in to
bat he issued from the pavilion with a wild eye and a haggard mien,
and a rooted idea that he was bound to be bowled first ball. This he
invariably played forward to, as the strain on his nervous system was
so severe that it was a physical impossibility for him to wait and
receive it in his crease. He counted every run he got, and, if there
was the faintest doubt about a snick, he would say, “I hope you noticed
that I touched that, umpire.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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