My brother said to me at breakfast:
“When you last played cricket, how many runs did you make?” And I answered him, truthfully, “Fifty.”
I remembered the occasion well for this was what happened. At school, oh! many years ago now, I had had my sixth form privileges taken away for some unpunctuality or other trifling delinquency and the captain of cricket in my house, a youth with whom I had scarcely ever found myself in sympathy, took advantage of my degraduation to put me in charge of a game, called quite appropriately a “Remnants’ game.” I had resented this distinction grimly, but as a matter of fact the afternoon had been less oppressive than I had expected. Only twenty-one boys arrived so, there being none to oppose me, I elected to play for both while they were batting. I thus ensured my rest and for an hour or so read contentedly having gone in first and failed to survive the first over. When eventually by various means the whole of one side had been dismissed—the umpire was always the next batsman, and, eager for his innings, was usually ready to prove himself sympathetic with the most extravagant appeal—I buckled on the pair of pads which a new boy had brought, although they were hotly claimed by the wicket keeper, and went out to bat. This other side bowled less well and after missing the ball once or twice, I suddenly and to my intense surprise hit it with great force. Delighted by this I did it again and again. The fielding was half-hearted and runs accumulated. I asked the scorer how many I had made and was told: “Thirty-six.” Now and then I changed the bowlers, being still captain of the fielding side and denounced those who were ostentatiously slack in the field. Soon I saw a restiveness about both sides and much looking at watches. “This game shall not end,” I ordained, “until I have made fifty.” Almost immediately the cry came “Fifty” and with much clapping I allowed the stumps to be drawn.
Such is the history of my only athletic achievement. On hearing of it my brother said, “Well, you’d better play today. Anderson has just fallen through. I’m taking a side down to a village in Hertfordshire—I’ve forgotten the name.”
And I thought of how much I had heard of the glories of village cricket and of that life into which I had never entered and so most adventurously, I accepted.
“Our train leaves King’s Cross at nine-twenty. The taxi will be here in five minutes. You’d better get your things.”
At quarter past nine we were at the station and some time before eleven the last of our team arrived. We learned that the village we were to play was called Torbridge. At half past twelve, we were assembled with many bags on the Torbridge platform. Outside two Fords were for hire and I and the man who had turned up latest succeeded in discovering the drivers in the “Horse and Cart”; they were very largely sober; it seemed that now everything would be going well. My brother said,
“Drive us to the cricket ground.”
“There isn’t no cricket ground,” brutishly, “is there, Bill?”
“I have heard that they do play cricket on Beesley’s paddock.”
“Noa, that’s football they plays there.”
“Ah;” very craftily, “but that’s in the winter. Mebbe they plays cricket there in the summer.”
“I have heard that he’s got that field for hay this year.”
“Why, so ’e ’ave.”
“No, there ain’t no cricket ground, mister.” And then I noticed a sign post. On one limb was written “Lower Torbridge, Great Torbridge, Torbridge St. Swithin............