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Page 74
A leg-theory bowler kept down the pace of the run-getting for a time,
but the bowlers at the other end continued to give away runs. Mike's
score passed from sixty to seventy, from seventy to eighty, from eighty
to ninety. When the Smiths, father and son, came on to the ground the
total was ninety-eight. Joe had made a hundred and thirty-three.
* * * * *
Mike reached his century just as Psmith and his father took their
seats. A square cut off the slow bowler was just too wide for point to
get to. By the time third man had sprinted across and returned the ball
the batsmen had run two.
Mr Smith was enthusiastic.
'I tell you,' he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gently
encouraging manner, 'the boy's a wonderful bat. I said so when he was
down with us. I remember telling him so myself. "I've seen your
brothers play," I said, "and you're better than any of them." I
remember it distinctly. He'll be playing for England in another year or
two. Fancy putting a cricketer like that into the City! It's a crime.'
'I gather,' said Psmith, 'that the family coffers had got a bit low. It
was necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving the
Old Home.'
'He ought to be at the University. Look, he's got that man away to the
boundary again. They'll never get him out.'
At six o'clock the partnership was broken, Joe running himself out in
trying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundred
and eighty-nine.
Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was sorry
Joe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest. He
was utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training for
first-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was as
tough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if he
had been having a brief spell at the nets. Mike, on the other hand,
felt that he simply wanted to be dropped into a cold bath and left
there indefinitely. There was only another half-hour's play, but he
doubted if he could get through it.
He dragged himself up wearily as Joe's successor arrived at the
wickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter's downfall, and it was
his turn to take the bowling.
Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ball
properly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and he
hit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his stroke
arrived too soon. The bowler, running in the direction of mid-on,
brought off an easy c.-and-b.
Mike turned away towards the pavilion. He heard the gradually swelling
applause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he reached
the dressing-room.
He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along and
take off his pads, when Psmith's card was brought to him. A few moments
later the old Etonian appeared in person.
'Hullo, Smith,' said Mike, 'By Jove! I'm done.'
'"How Little Willie Saved the Match,"' said Psmith. 'What you want is
one of those gin and ginger-beers we hear so much about. Remove those
pads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well, Comrade
Jackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father sends his
compliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He is going to
look in at the flat latish.'
'How many did I get?' asked Mike. 'I was so jolly done I didn't think
of looking.'
'A hundred and forty-eight of the best,' said Psmith. 'What will they
say at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us test
this fruity old ginger-beer of theirs.'
The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently having a
little stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the drawing
of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him off
in a cab to Simpson's, a restaurant which, as he justly observed,
offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not dress, and,
secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at liberty to
eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extra
charge.
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