Marvis Bay, and take no risks. His statement was coldly received, and on the scoresheet of the match you will find these words are written:—
| J. B. Sharples, run out | … | … | … | 0 |
The wicked never prosper.
We were gathered together in the parlour of the only inn the village possesses on the night before the match, very sociable and comfortable and pleased with ourselves. We had come flushed with victory from Seaton, and everything pointed to a delightful game on the morrow. There were no signs of rain. It had been a beautiful evening, and the glass was going up. It was pretty to see the faith we had in that glass. On our last visit, a year back, the thing had prophesied much rain, and we had been unanimous in pointing out that of course no sane man ever thought of trusting a barometer.
Geake had just finished telling us, at considerable length, how he once made twenty-three not out in a house match at Malvern (which none of us believed) when Sharples strolled in.
He wore a cynical smile.
As a rule this smile of his is the forerunner of some bad news. He is apt to come up just before the Seaton match and tell me that he has strained his heart, or a lung, or something, and cannot possibly bowl a ball. But, as the match the next day was only against Marvis Bay, it seemed impossible that any bad news he might have could really matter. Even if he could not bowl for some reason it would not be particularly serious. Our changes were capable of getting Marvis Bay out.
However, I thought it was my duty, in my capacity of captain of the team, to hear all that was to be heard.
"What's the matter, Sharples?" I asked.
He shook his head pityingly.
"See," he said—"see how the little victims play, regardless of their fate."
One of the little victims, Gregory, our wicket-keeper, flung a bound volume of the Farmers' Magazine at him.
He caught it high up with one hand.
"I'm in rare form," he said, complacently. "I can see anything. Good job too. We shall need good fielding."
"Sharples," I said, "you've got something up your sleeve. Out with it, or get out. You're frightening Sanderson."
Sanderson, our nervous batsman, was already beginning to quake like a jelly caught in a storm.
"What's up, Sharples?" said several voices.
Our fast bowler condescended to explain.
"As I was coming up the street just now," he said, "I suddenly noticed a horse shy violently. And next minute I saw the reason. A little shrimp of a man with a face like a music-hall comedian was coming towards me. Do any of you know Wix? Apollo Wix?"
"Plays for Somerset," said Sanderson.
"He do," assented Sharples. "And likewise does he play—on occasion and by special request—for Marvis Bay."
"What?" I shouted.
Sharples's smile became a grin.
"James, my gallant skipper, I speak the truth. Wix, who, I may point out, is eighth in the first-class averages, has come down here all for love of us to play against the Weary Willies."
Our jaws fell. We had been looking forward to a gentle, go-as-you-please village game. With Wix against us we might have to go our hardest to win.
"Haven't Somerset a match?" asked Geake. "I thought they were playing Gloucestershire."
"Not till Monday, Gloucestershire. They are free till then. Hence," added Sharples, calmly, "we shall also have the pleasure of playing to-morrow against Jack Coggin and T. C. Smith."
A perfect howl of anguish rose from all corners of the room.
"Wha-a-at?"
"Jack Coggin!"
"What on earth"
"Who"
"T. C. Smith!"
"Wix, Smith, and Coggin! Good Lord!" There followed a lull, during which I heard Sanderson murmur, sadly, "And the last time I played against Jack Coggin he outed me in my first over!"
"Sharples," said.
"Sir to you."
"Tell me you're lying and I'll forgive you."
"You pain me, James. I am a slave to truth. Haven't you ever heard that story of me when I was a boy? My father found me cutting down a cherry tree. 'Who is cutting down this tree?' he asked, sternly. 'Father,' I said, 'I cannot tell a lie. It is probably the cat.' You needn't believe what I say, of course. Wix is my authority. Oh, and, by the way "
"Yes?"
