Ричард Марш
Amusement Only

CHAPTER II
MR. BENYON BOWLS

The match was to be played on Mr. Stubbs's field. Mr. Stubbs was a local butcher. Mr. Sapsworth had kindly promised to come and escort me to the scene of action. He arrived at half-past nine, just as I was opening my morning's letters. On the way he gave me a chart of the country. It appeared that in batting we were not strong, in fielding we were weak, and that our bowling was more than shaky.

"But we shall pull through," Mr. Sapsworth added; "especially now," and he glanced at me.

"I hope you are under no delusion as to my powers, Mr. Sapsworth. I never was a first-rate cricketer, and, as I have already told you, it is more than fifteen years since I handled a bat."

"If you'll excuse my saying so, sir, I've generally noticed that them who doesn't say much does a deal."

That was one way of looking at it, no doubt; but if I did a deal, I could only say that it would be a pleasant surprise to me.

"And our opponents-what sort of a team are they?"

Mr. Sapsworth turned up his nose-not metaphorically, but as a matter of fact.

"If we're bad," he said, "they're wuss. There's only one thing I've ever seen those Latchmere blokes much good at, and that is cheating. You'll have to keep a sharp eye on them, or they'll have all our chaps out when they ain't; and they won't go out themselves, not even when you've bowled their three stumps down all of a row."

"Surely," I suggested, "those sort of questions are for the umpires to decide."

"Umpires!" Up went Mr. Sapworth's nose again. "They bring their own umpire, and he's got his own ideas of umpiring, he has. But we've got our own umpire as well as them."

I said nothing; but Mr. Sapsworth's words conveyed to my mind pleasant impressions of the strict rigour of the game.

When we arrived there was a goodly gathering already assembled in Mr. Stubbs's field. A tent was erected; in and about it was a nondescript collection of men and boys; some forty or fifty others, availing themselves of the opportunity afforded them for a little practice, were actually disporting themselves on the pitch on which we were presently to play. I consoled myself with the reflection that the worse the ground was the more my bowling would tell.

Mr. Sapworth introduced me to the crowd en masse. Several persons touched their caps to me; others nodded their heads; some grinned.

"Good-morning, gentlemen. We're going to have a fine day for our match. Our team all here?"

Mr. Sapworth took upon himself to answer; he had been searching about him with his eyes.

"They're here all right. I suppose those Latchmere chaps ain't come yet?"

They had not come, and they did not come for an hour or more. I employed the interval in becoming acquainted with the individual members, arranging the order of going in, and their positions in the field; matters in appearance simple enough, but more difficult in practice. But at last the preliminaries were settled somehow, and the Latchmere men appeared upon the ground.

Their captain, coming up, was introduced to me. I was informed afterwards that he was a blacksmith. I thought he was by the way in which he grasped my hand. His opening speech was a little surprising.

"We ain't going to play you if you've got eleven men, you know."

I inquired into his meaning.

"We've only got ten," he said. "And one of them's Soft Sawney, and another's Sprouts."

I do not know if those were the correct names of the gentlemen referred to, or only fancy ones by which they were known to their friends; but he laid his hand on two of his followers and hauled them to the front. One was a long, weedy youth, who, one saw at a glance, was more than half an imbecile; and the other was a portly old gentleman of fifty-five or six, with a corporation like a barrel.

Mr. Sapsworth intervened.

"What's that?" he cried. "We've got Hedges!"

He brought Mr. Hedges forward. I could not but feel that, to say the least of it, Mr. Hedges balanced Mr. Sprouts. If Mr. Hedges could run more than a dozen yards without pausing to take breath, I was almost ready to express my willingness to eat my hat.

"But we've only got ten men," persisted Mr. Barker. "You'll only have to have ten. If you think we're going to play against your eleven we won't play you at all, so that's all about it."

There was a prospect of unpleasantness even before the match began. It seemed that one of us would have to retire, in satisfaction of Mr. Barker's rather unjustifiable demand. I was about to retire myself-for I instinctively felt that, as a captain, I was no match for Mr. Barker-when a rather curious incident occurred.

On a sudden a newcomer appeared upon the scene. I say on a sudden, for no one had noticed his approach, and yet, all at once, there he was, standing between the Latchmere captain and myself. To me at any rate his presence was so unexpected, and, indeed, so startling, that I stared. He seemed to have come out of space. He was a big, burly fellow, with smooth cheeks, round face, bullet-shaped head, and sleepy-looking black eyes.

"Let me play for you?" he said.

For a moment Mr. Barker stared at the stranger in surprise, in common with the rest of us. Then he jumped at the offer.

"Let you! rather!" He thrust out his hand and caught the stranger's palm in his. But no sooner had he got it firmly gripped than he dropped it with an exclamation: "Why, what's the matter with you? Ain't you well? Your hand's as cold as a frozen corpse."

I went a little aside with Mr. Sapsworth.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"I don't know, and yet I seem somehow to have seen his face before. But let them have him. He doesn't look as though he were up to much."

He did not. Anyone looking less like a cricketer I have seldom seen. His costume was ridiculous. He had on a pair of large check trousers-a check of the kind which the Oxford tailor explained to the undergraduate was a leetle too large to be seen to advantage on a single pair of understandings. He had on a huge top hat, of a size and shape which would have made the fortune of a "lion comique." A red woollen muffler was wound several times round his neck, and his capacious person was enveloped in an enormous overcoat, the like of which I had never seen before. The day promised to remind us of the torrid zone, yet Mr. Barker had cried out that the stranger's hand felt cold.

In the toss for innings victory fell to us. So we went in. I led the van. My associate was a youth named Fenning. He was a mere lad, and looked too much of a lout to be much of a cricketer. Mr. Barker led the bowling. I soon saw that if he had any strength it was not as a bowler. If I kept my head, I told myself, and he carried away my bails, it would be owing to the ground; for a rougher piece of turf, I suppose, few wickets have been pitched upon. But I was far too nervous to take liberties even with Mr. Barker. And, indeed, when the first over was finished, and I found myself still in, I drew a long breath of self-congratulation.

The other bowler was, in his own line, as meritorious a specimen as his captain. So, on the whole, things were going better than I had expected. I had scored eleven, six off Mr. Barker, and the rest off his friend. Even Fenning had hit up two-literally hit up. I was really beginning to think that I was getting set, which, in my palmiest days had only happened once-thrice happy day! – when something took place which showed me, not for the first time, the advisability of never counting your chickens till the eggs are hatched.

Mr. Barker was just about to commence an over. He actually had the ball in his hand, when the substitute-the stranger who had volunteered to fill the place of the eleventh man-came marching right across the field. Mr. Barker saw him coming, and called out to him to stay where he was. But, wholly unheeding, the substitute strode on. He reached Mr. Barker, and, without saying a word, so far as I could perceive, he coolly held out his hand for the ball. I fully expected that the Latchmere captain would remonstrate, and not only remonstrate, but remonstrate strongly; but, to my surprise, he instantly surrendered the ball, and slunk rather than walked to the place which the stranger had just quitted. So the substitute was left to bowl.

Without doubt he was an eccentric character. Up to that moment he had been fielding in his woollen muffler, his overcoat, and, last but not least, his wonderful top hat. These, however, he now doffed, and laid in a heap upon the ground. Their disappearance revealed the fact that he wore a tight-fitting jacket which was the same wonderful pattern in checks as his trousers. From the look of him, I certainly never supposed that he could bowl. My surprise was, therefore, all the greater when I discovered that he could. His action was peculiar. He went right up to the wicket, and stood quite still, delivering the ball with a curious flourish of the wrist. Its pace was amazing. It pitched a good two feet to the off, and broke right in-perhaps aided by the ground, though he certainly had found a spot. I was so astounded by the pace-which reminded me of the old stories told of Lillywhite; you could hear it "humming" in the air-that I never even moved my bat. It was that which saved me. As it was the bat was all but driven out of my hand. I told myself that on the arrival of a second edition I should have to go. Yet I did manage to stop the next four balls-how, I have not the faintest notion; but the sixth-for it seemed that, in those parts, they bowled six to the over-took my middle stump, breaking it clean off at the top.

As I entered the tent the scorer cried out-

"What name?"

"Tom Benyon," replied the bowler.

Mr. Hedges, who was seated at the scorer's side, brought down his fist upon the trestle-table with a bang.

"I knew it was! I knowed him all along!" Mr. Hedges was in a state of odd excitement. "That chap who bowled you ain't a man, sir-he's a ghost."

"He manages to put a good deal of pace on the ball for a ghost," I answered.

"And so he ought to. Did you hear what name he said? He said Tom Benyon! There wasn't a better cricketer in all these parts than Tom Benyon used to be. He played up in Lunnon more than once, I know, and got well paid for playing too. But he always was a queer sort, was Tom. I knew him well. I saw him buried. And if it is him, and not his ghost, he ain't grown a day older these twenty years, he ain't."

I laughed. I supposed the old gentleman was jesting. But not a bit of it. When our second man had gone to the wicket Mr. Sapsworth drew me aside.

"I don't like the look of this," he said.

"Nor I," I answered, supposing he referred to Mr. Benyon's bowling. "He'll bring down our stumps like ninepins."

"It isn't that. It-it's the man," he said.

"Do you mean the ghost?" I asked jokingly.

"It's easy to laugh. But-" Mr. Sapsworth paused. I could see he was ashamed of himself, yet had his suspicions none the less. "I thought I had seen him before, and I had. It is Tom Benyon."

"He says he is Tom Benyon, and I suppose he should know best."

"Yes." Mr. Sapsworth fidgeted. "But Tom Benyon's been dead these twenty years."

"Dead!" I cried, and laughed. "He showed himself too much alive for me, at any rate."

"When I was a youngster," continued Mr. Sapsworth, "Tom Benyon used to come into my father's shop to be shaved. He was always on the drink. One morning I was all alone, minding the shop for father, when he came in, mad drunk. I never shall forget that morning, never. He made me sit in the shaving-chair, and set about to shave me. He soaped me all over-face and hair and all. I was that there frightened I couldn't make a sound. I never shall forget how I sat and watched him, with the soap all in my eyes, as he put an edge upon the razor. Then he set about shaving off my hair. He had got off about half of it, and I was streaming with blood, when who should come in but my father. If he hadn't Tom Benyon would have made an end of me."

He paused. I perceived that the mere recollection of his little adventure affected him unpleasantly.

"There was something queer about his death. Some people said it was drink had done for him, some of 'em said he had done for himself. Anyhow, the whole country-side was at his funeral. I was there. I remember it as plainly as though it was yesterday."

While I was looking at Mr. Sapsworth, and pondering his words, there came the sound of laughter from the middle of the ground. It was not a loud laugh, but it was a distinctly disagreeable one. I looked round. Mr. Benyon was laughing at Mr. Fenning's discomfiture. He had served him as he had served me-he had taken his middle stump right out of the ground. I turned to Mr. Sapsworth.

"You follow."

"Me!" Mr. Sapsworth turned several shades whiter. "Me!" He looked about him with a frightened air. "Mr. Trentham, I-I can't," he said.

"Nonsense, Sapsworth! You don't mean to say that you are going to allow yourself to be frightened by any nonsense about a ghost, and in broad daylight too!"

The little man did not look by any means reassured by my tone of derision. He seemed more inclined to take to his heels than to take his place at the wickets. It is not impossible that he might have done so had he not been addressed from a different quarter.

"Bob Sapsworth!" It was Mr. Benyon calling to the little barber right across the field. "Come and be shaved!"

I own that I myself was startled. The words were apposite, to say the least of it. We had just been speaking of Mr. Sapsworth's experience of the shaver's art as practised by Mr. Benyon's hands, and here was Mr. Benyon's namesake inviting him, if not to be cut, at least to come again. On Mr. Sapsworth the effect of the invitation was surprising. He had on his pads, his bat was in his hand. Without a word he shuffled towards the stumps. If ever I saw a man go to the wickets in a state of "mortal funk," I saw him then.

I myself moved towards the scoring-tent. The state of things within it at once impressed me as peculiar. It had been filled, a little time ago, with jovial faces. Now, the owners of those faces might have been attendants at a funeral. And many a man has had a livelier following to the grave than I saw assembled then.

Fenning came shambling into the tent. I spoke to him.

"Mr. Benyon's bowling was too much for you, eh, Fenning?"

Unless I am mistaken, Mr. Fenning wiped a tear out of his eye. He certainly put up his hand and rubbed the optic with his knuckles.

"I never seed such bowling! 'Tain't fair!" he said.

"What is there unfair about it, Fenning?"

"It comes so sharp. I never seed the ball afore there was my wickets down."

I smiled. Not so the company. They regarded Mr. Fenning's words with different eyes. Mr. Hedges gave expression to the general opinion.

"You ain't never seen such bowling afore, and you won't never see such bowling again. 'Cause why? 'Cause it's a ghost that's bowling, not a man!"

Mr. Fenning looked about him with open eyes, and with open mouth as well. "A ghost!" he mumbled.

"A ghost!" said Mr. Hedges.

I expostulated.

"Come, Mr. Hedges, you frighten the lad. I am surprised, too, that a man of your age and experience and wisdom should talk nonsense about ghosts."

Mr. Hedges looked up at me a little sharply.

"If he ain't a ghost, what's become of the things that he's took off?"

I asked him what he meant. He pointed across the ground.

"He took off his hat and his coat and his scarf, and he laid 'em on the grass. He ain't touched 'em, and no one ain't took 'em, yet they're gone! We saw 'em go. If he ain't a ghost, what's become of the things that he's took off?"

Mr. Hedges grew a little excited. I looked in the direction in which the old gentleman was pointing. The garments he referred to had apparently vanished, but, of course, their disappearance was susceptible of a most natural explanation. I should have maintained this proposition with more confidence had it not been for something which immediately occurred.

Mr. Benyon was preparing to deliver his first ball to Mr. Sapsworth, and as I eyed him I noted the extremely unworkmanlike attitude in which Mr. Sapsworth awaited the delivery. Preparatory to delivering the ball Mr. Benyon divested himself of his remarkable coat, which matched his trousers, and in so doing disclosed a waistcoat which matched his coat. Neatly folding up the garment, he laid it beside him on the ground. No sooner did it touch the ground than it disappeared. I am unable to say how, but it did, and that before the eyes of all the lookers-on. This singular behaviour on the part of that curious garment took me by surprise.

After that I was prepared to excuse a certain amount of nervousness on the part of Mr. Sapsworth. To Mr. Benyon Mr. Sapsworth's nervousness seemed to afford positive pleasure. He cried, in a tone which was perhaps meant to be jovial:

"Now, Bob Sapsworth, prepare to be shaved!"

The ball went from his hand like lightning. Mr. Sapsworth yelled. Mr. Benyon sent down his second ball-whack! not against the bat, but, I should say, as nearly as possible against the same portion of Mr. Sapsworth's frame which it had struck before. Any cricketer might have been demoralised after receiving two such blows, but he would at least have tried to get out of the way of the ball instead of in it. Mr. Sapsworth placed his person exactly where the ball might be expected to come, and, for once in a way, expectation was realised-it did come. The third, fourth, and fifth balls found an exactly similar billet, and the sixth not only knocked his bat out of his trembling hands, but all three of his stumps clean out of the ground.

"I said I'd shave you, Bobby!" shouted Mr. Benyon, as the victim went limping from the place of execution.

"Next man in," I said.

"I ain't going in," courteously rejoined the player whose turn it was to follow. I was about to ask him why, when I was saved the trouble by Mr. Benyon.

"Jack Hawthorn!" Oddly enough, the man's name was Hawthorn, though how Mr. Benyon came to know that he was next man in is more than I can say. Mr. Hawthorn was a huge fellow quite six feet high; but at the sound of Mr. Benyon's voice he rose, docile as a child. "I'm waiting for you."

Without pads Mr. Hawthorn went striding across the turf, content to use the bat which Mr. Sapsworth had left lying on the ground. That hero came limping into the tent.

"It's a ghost," he said.

I could not but feel that the fellow was something of a cur. To this feeling I gave expression.

"Ghost or no ghost, rather than let him pound me all over the body with the ball, I would have made one try to hit at it. And you told me that you were an all-round player."

No doubt the man must have been suffering considerable pain, but I was too much annoyed at his cowardice to feel for him. Besides, the whole thing was so preposterous.

Undoubtedly, as a trundler Mr. Benyon was superb. I have no hesitation in saying that I do not remember to have seen finer bowling than his on any ground in England. He combined two things which, so far as I am aware, are not to be found together in any living player-pace and break. But it was not his bowling, fine as it was, which promised to work our ruin, so much as the absurd belief entertained by the members of the team that he-check trousers and all-was a ghost. An idea came into my head. I resolved that I would ask him, point-blank, in the face of all the people, if he was a ghost. If his answers did not satisfy the doubters nothing would.

The opportunity occurred just as he was about to begin his following over. Moving from the tent, I advanced towards the wickets.

"Excuse me, Mr. Benyon, but before you commence to bowl might I speak to you a word?"

He turned and looked at me. As he did so I was conscious that, in the most emphatic sense of the word, his appearance was peculiar. He looked as though he were a corpse, and an unhealthy corpse to boot-the sort of corpse that no man would spend a night with willingly. And this unpleasant appearance was accentuated by his ridiculous attire. Fancy a dead man, of a bloated habit of body, taking his walks abroad in a suit of checks-each check twelve inches square! I was so uncomfortably conscious that Mr. Benyon did not look a clubbable kind of man that I faltered in my speech.

"You will excuse me, Mr. Benyon, if the question I am about to put to you appears to you even worse than absurd, but the members of my team have some ridiculous notion in their heads that you are a certain Tom Benyon who died twenty years ago, and who now lies buried in the churchyard. I am sure, therefore, you will forgive my asking, are you a ghost?"

Mr. Benyon eyed me, and I eyed him-not willingly, but because, for some reason or other, I could not help it. At last he answered, speaking in a sort of shout,

"I am."

Of course such an answer was absurd-ridiculously absurd. As I sit here writing no man could be more conscious of its absurdity than I am. But then it was not that I was so conscious of as of a cold shiver going all down my back, and of a sort of feeling as though Providence had sent me out into the world knock-kneed. I struggled against a strong inclination to sit down upon the turf and stop there. But being at the same time dimly aware that I was making an unexampled fool of myself, I made a frantic effort to regain the use of my tongue.

"Oh, you-you are a ghost! I-I thought so. Tha-thanks."

How I got back to the tent I have not the faintest notion. But I do know that after that exhibition of the sort of stuff that I was made of, disaster followed hard upon disaster.

The first wicket-my own-had fallen for thirteen runs. The second, and the third, had seen the score unaltered. Hawthorn was the fourth man in. He was so fortunate as to appear upon the scene just as I put my fatal question-it was to give him a chance I put it. The answer settled him-that is, if there was anything left to settle. I am not able to state exactly what became of him, but I have a clear impression that he was out at the end of the over. Moreover, of this I am well assured, that nine wickets fell without an addition being made to the score. I suppose that is, in its way, a record.

Whether Mr. Benyon owed the inhabitants of his native place a grudge the evidence before me does not enable one to decide; but, if he did, he certainly paid it in full that day. Although he bowled at the wickets he hit the players first. Nor was this, so far as appearances went, in any way his fault; they seemed to have a singular knack of getting just in the way of the ball. The order of the innings was this: the ball hit each man five times, and the wickets once. At the end of each of Mr. Benyon's overs a batsman returned to the tent a sadder and a lamer man.

One case in particular was hard. It was the case of Mr. Hedges. He was the last man in; when his turn came, with the score still at thirteen runs, he stuck to his seat like glue.

"Won't somebody go in for me?" he asked, as he saw his doom approaching. "I ain't no cricketer," he added, a little later on. "Now am I?" He asked the question of his friends, but his friends were still. He addressed himself to Mr. Sapsworth. "Bob Sapsworth, you asked me to play, now didn't you? You says to me, 'If you play, William Hedges,' you says, 'I shouldn't be surprised but what the gent as we're going to ask to captain us stands you a free lunch,' you says, 'not to speak of drinks,' you says." I pricked up my ears at this, but held my tongue. "But you says nothing about being bowled at by a ghost, now did you now; I ask you, Bob Sapsworth, did you now?"

Mr. Sapsworth was silent. The old gentleman went on:

"I shan't go in," he announced. That was when the ninth batsman had received Mr. Benyon's first ball-upon his person. "Nothing shan't make me go in to be bowled at by a ghost." This second announcement followed the delivery of the second ball upon the batsman's person. "I ain't no cricketer, and I don't know nothing about the rules of the game, and I ain't going to stand up to be chucked at by a ghost," and Mr. Hedges struck his fist upon the board. There came a yell from the wickets; Mr. Hedges gripped his seat tightly with his hands. "I won't go in!" he cried. Another ball, another yell. Mr. Hedges repeated his determination over and over again, as if in its reiteration he sought for strength to keep it. "I won't! I won't! I won't!"

The last ball of the over, and the ninth of our hopes had fallen. A pause ensued. The batsman came limping towards the tent. Mr. Hedges' time was come; he clutched at the seat with the frenzy of despair.

"Bill Hedges!" sang out Mr. Benyon; but Mr. Hedges gave no sign. "Bill Hedges!" Still no reply. "Bill Hedges, have I got to come and fetch you?"

At that awful threat the old gentleman did rise. His ample form went waddling across the ground.

"I-I'm a-coming, Tom. I-I ain't no cricketer, Tom. Do-don't you be too hard on me. If you must hit me, let it be behind."

"Where's your bat?"

The inquiry came from Mr. Benyon. Mr. Hedges had arrived at the wicket without that batsman's requisite. He scratched his head.

"My bat? I-I don't want no bat. I-I ain't no cricketer. You can hit me quite as well without it, Tom."

"Go and get your bat!"

Mr. Hedges went and got it. When he had it it was evident that he had but rudimentary notions of its uses. He held it gingerly, round side foremost, as though he were afraid that if he grasped it tightly it would burn him.

"Bill Hedges, do you remember those drinks you paid for me the Saturday week before I died?"

"No, Tom; I can't say rightly as how I do."

"You did. It was at the 'Crown and Anchor.' I had no money. I said if you'd stand Sam I'd pay you back again; but I never did. I'll pay you now."

Mr. Benyon paid him, five times over. The old gentleman bore it like a lamb. Whack-whack-whack-whack-whack! and the fall of his wicket at the end. As he returned towards the tent he wiped his wrinkled brow.

"I always said I wasn't no cricketer, and I ain't," he said.