dream, and it was very annoying to realise that he had not played a wonderful innings of 150 not out, after all! He dressed quickly, and went down into the sitting-room kitchen. His cold breakfast was on the table, and Tim Twister, looking rather sheepish, was standing in front of the fireplace.
“Hullo, Davie, you’re pretty late,” Tim began.
“Ay,” said Davie, “I’ve had a terrible bad night.”
“So’ve I,” returned Tim, sympathetically. “Nightmare, something shocking!”
Davie started, and looked at the young man very curiously as he poured out his tea.
“I heard last night,” continued Tim, rather anxiously, “as how Swears had said that you was to play to-day v. Yorkshire.”
“Ay,” answered Davie, with a sigh, “so he said.”
“Well,” inquired Tim, eagerly, “are you going to?”
Davie did not answer for a moment, but stirred his tea reflectively. “No,” he replied at last, with a sudden burst. “No, I’m hanged if I’ll turn out again at my age. Last night, I’ll own, I were as keen as mustard; but this morning I can see plain enough I’m too old. That dream o’ mine’s done one good thing—it’s taken down my conceit.”
“What!” cried Tim, “have you been dreaming about cricket?”
“Ay,” replied Davie gloomily, “every blessed bit o’ the night.”
“Holy Moses!” Tim exclaimed, “So’ve I! I thought I were watching the match v. Yorkshire, and I seed you play an extraordinary innings—you made two hundred runs?”
“A hundred and fifty it were,” murmured Davie absently. “But then, you see, I’d got Fuller Pilch’s bat.”
“I dreamt that dream twice over,” Tim continued, not comprehending the last remark.
“Ay, no wonder you chaps dream about cricket,” muttered Mrs. Davie, who was bustling around with a contemptuous toss, “you talk o’ little else.”
“Well, it’s made me think a bit,” proceeded Tim solemnly. “If some of the young ’uns come off to-day, the county may do without the fellows on strike. That’d be a bit awkward.”
“Ay, it would,” said Davie, “for you.”
“Well,” observed Tim anxiously, “I’ve just sent a message round to them five other chaps, saying as I was coming round to your place to talk things over with a view to arranging terms wi’ the committee.”
“Oh,” said Davie, “they’re not revengeful, and if you’re willing I dare say they’ll let you play.”
At that moment there was a buzz of voices outside, and then in walked Bails, and Daddy Longlegs and the crack bat, and the other two.
“Hullo!” said Davie, looking up from his breakfast. “I do call this neighbourly. Are there any more on you?”
“Tim Twister,” thundered Bails, “you’re a blackleg.”
“Bails,” returned Tim, “you’re a fathead.”
“What’s all this, Tim,” cried Daddy Longlegs, “about giving in?”
“Why, it means,” Davie replied, “that Tim’s the only one among you who’s not a fool.”
There was a long and excited discussion, but as Tim Twister adhered firmly to his resolution of throwing himself upon the mercy of the committee the rest were afraid to remain any longer in mutiny. So Davie was deputed to open negotiations with Mr. Swears; and the honorary secretary, learning that the players were now penitent, was only too ready to receive them back into the fold. Thus the famous strike came to an end.
It was fortunate that it did, for that same day Tim Twister played the great innings of his life, and it was mainly through his batting that his county succeeded in beating the splendid Yorkshire eleven.
When he was out old Davie came to him in the players’ dressing-room to offer his congratulations.
“I say, Tim,” he remarked, after they had been talking for a little while, “that must be a splendid bat you’ve got.”
“Oh,” answered the young professional carelessly, “it’s right enough.”
“In those dreams of yours last night,” continued Davie solemnly, and scratching his head, “you don’t recollect meeting wi’ old Fuller Pilch?”
It was a hot and thirsty day, and Tim looked at the old groundsman suspiciously. But Davie was all right.
“No, I don’t remember as I did,” he replied, wonderingly.
“Well,” said Davie, “you couldn’t have played a finer innings if Fuller Pilch had given you his bat!”
Then Davie, whose temperament was as romantic as a Welsh bard’s, told Tim the story of his dream.
Now, in Davie’s county, when any man plays a remarkably fine innings it is always said that he has got Fuller Pilch’s bat.
