THE number of boys in Mr Myame’s school varied between nineteen and twenty-four, and yet Edward Albert got into the first eleven before he had been there two years, and played in his last year in the annual match against Bolter’s College. Before that match he had not liked cricket very much, but sifter it he was as thorough a cricket fan as every young Englishman ought to be.

Mr Myame’s school played cricket in Regent’s Park in the summer, but it did not play any game in the winter, because football made the boys muddy and parents objected, But Mr Myame was convinced that good sound open-air exercise was conducive to morality. He hated to ‘think of boys “loafing about” and the menu of his prospectus included “compulsory games.” Boys should go tired to bed. It was possible to obtain caps, flannels, shoes and equipment generally from firms of school outfitters at advantageous wholesale prices, and even the most unworldly parents were gratified by the spectacle of their offspring apparently playing cricket in a socially acceptable manner. The underlying seriousness of the school was apparent in the choice of black and white for the school colours.

Contemplating this enlargement of his enterprise, Mr Myame, being aware of a certain athletic insufficiency in himself, added a “Games Master” to the staff, Mr Plipp, an excellent young married elementary teacher who was free on Wednesday afternoons and who was also prepared to regard scout marches and tracking on Primrose Hill as a compulsory game for the winter months.

Nothing remained to perfect this games side of the school except to arrange a few matches, and here Mr Myame was so fortunate as to fall in with the Principal of Bolter’s College who was watching his boys “practise”, while he wrestled with a similar problem. Bolter’s College was a small genteel private establishment in Highbury which catered mainly for the offspring of remote or hypothetical parents in the tropics; it had a union Jack on its blazer pockets, its caps were red, white and blue, and its style of play did not seem to be hopelessly above the school standard. So an annual, no, the annual cricket match was arranged, and had been going on for several years before Edward Albert joined the school Generally Bolter’s won by producing lean, lithe and dusky “old boys” or alleged new additions to the staff who never reappeared. Nothing had been said about “old boys.” It seemed unkind to exclude them. Myame’s was a younger and smaller establishment without them.

They wanted Edward Albert to come up nearer and on the off side. Was there to be no longstop? Up there and closer was more dangerous. In the slips a ball can knock you over and stun you before you know where you are. Why not pretend to be sick or go home? And be jawed at after by Mr Myame? Instead of tea?

Edward Albert trotted up to his appointed place. The ritual of the game began. Middle? No — a little to the left. That’s right. Play!

The old boy batting at the wicket snicked the ball neatly for a boundary. It passed within a foot of Edward Albert. Six.

“Look alive there, Tewler,” said Mr Plipp, not too pleasantly.

Edward Albert neglected the game for a moment or so while he exchanged offensive grimaces with Nuts. Then a ball hit him,

It hit him so hard that for a moment he thought he saw two balls, one at his feet and one running away from him. The College batsmen were running. “Can you, Sir?”

cried the daemonic old boy. “Come on, Sir?” They were stealing a second run. “Now then, Tewler!” cried Mr Myame. “Oh! Look alive.”

Edward Albert scrabbled at his feet and secured a ball, and with all his soul and strength threw it at the wicket keeper. It missed him by about a yard and a half, and knocked the bails off the wicket. The bat of the long darkie slid over the creases, five seconds too late. Still Edward Albert did not realise his good fortune.

“Owzatsir?” Mr Myame was saying, and the Umpire answered “Out.”

“Well thrown in, Tewler!” said Mr Plipp. “Perfect! exactly what I wanted.”

Edward Albert grew an inch or so and forgot that he probably had a bump at the back of his head. “I fort it best to throw straight at the wicket, Sir,” he said.

“Exactly. Exactly.”

“You did quite right,” Mr Myame confirmed. “We shall make a cricketer of you yet, Tewler. Smartest thing you’ve done for a long time. . . . ”

The game was held up for a moment by cries of “Thank you, Sir, Thank you.” There was a ball about from an adjacent game, and this was the established way of demanding its return. There it was, quite close to the Umpire’s foot. (Then there had been a second ball! ) The Old Boy picked it up absent-mindedly and sent it soaring home, before retiring to the College outs to brood over his premature dismissal. He had counted on a long and glorious afternoon of free, loose hitting. He was replaced by a small boy who succumbed to the third of what were known as Mr Plipp’s “googlies”, a curious slow overarm delivery with great hypnotic power over the young.

“Owe-ver.”

And then came a terrific event. Mr Plipp told Edward Albert to bowl. He told him to bowl. He held the ball in his hand, looked at it, started, seemed to be struck by some strange idea, and then ordered Edward Albert to bowl.

Mr Plipp was a cricket strategist of the most elaborate type, but for him to tell Edward Albert to take the next over strained the faith of his following to near the breaking point. He instructed his pupil carefully in undertones. “This big chap,” he said, “is a slogger and used to good ordinary bowling. Well, give him some of those incalculable grounders of yours. See? Lob a bit if you like. Don’t mind if he swipes you out of bounds once or twice. I know what I’m doing.”

And, after looking at it again for another reflective moment, he handed the ball to Edward Albert. “Bowl to his leg side,” said Mr Plipp, “and vary the pace. I want him to hit.”

Fear and pride mingled in Edward Albert’s heart as he handled the ball. As he felt for its creases, he had a curious feeling of unfamiliarity. This ball was showing signs of wear, he thought. . . . But now to bowl, If he aimed about a yard or so to the right he might get the wicket. It often happened like that. He would do that. To begin with he would try one of his short sneakers. It pitched short and rolled slowly towards the wicket The giant, who seemed now ten feet high and broad in proportion, awaited its Doming with some hesitation. It was not the sort of ball he was accustomed to deal with. He wasn’t prepared for anything so feeble. He simply blocked the ball.

“Well bowled, Tewler,” cried Nuts derisively. Jealous? Yes, but next time . . .

Our hero resolved to vary his attack. He would send in a few very simple grounders to the giant’s leg. One fast and then a slow twister? Down there. Out of his reach, perhaps. The fast one first. Edward Albert put all his strength into it and alas! up went the ball in the air. Up, up, it went — a perfect Yorker. He’d slog it to — heaven! But the giant, expecting another lob, had been advancing to smite. This strange ball, high in the air, made him hesitate, and, hesitating, he was lost. He remembered what he had to do just half a second ............