H. Wells - You Can't Be Too Careful

“Owzatsir?” Mr Myame was saying, and the Umpire answered “Out.”

“Well thrown in, Tewler!” said Mr Plipp. “Perfect! exactly what I wanted.”

Edward Albert grew an inch or so and forgot that he probably had a bump at the back of his head. “I fort it best to throw straight at the wicket, Sir,” he said.

“Exactly. Exactly.”

“You did quite right,” Mr Myame confirmed. “We shall make a cricketer of you yet, Tewler. Smartest thing you’ve done for a long time....”

The game was held up for a moment by cries of “Thank you, Sir, Thank you.” There was a ball about from an adjacent game, and this was the established way of demanding its return. There it was, quite close to the Umpire’s foot. (Then there had been a second ball! ) The Old Boy picked it up absent-mindedly and sent it soaring home, before retiring to the College outs to brood over his premature dismissal. He had counted on a long and glorious afternoon of free, loose hitting. He was replaced by a small boy who succumbed to the third of what were known as Mr Plipp’s “googlies”, a curious slow overarm delivery with great hypnotic power over the young.

“Owe-ver.”

And then came a terrific event. Mr Plipp told Edward Albert to bowl. He told him to bowl. He held the ball in his hand, looked at it, started, seemed to be struck by some strange idea, and then ordered Edward Albert to bowl.

Mr Plipp was a cricket strategist of the most elaborate type, but for him to tell Edward Albert to take the next over strained the faith of his following to near the breaking point. He instructed his pupil carefully in undertones. “This big chap,” he said, “is a slogger and used to good ordinary bowling. Well, give him some of those incalculable grounders of yours. See? Lob a bit if you like. Don’t mind if he swipes you out of bounds once or twice. I know what I’m doing.”

And, after looking at it again for another reflective moment, he handed the ball to Edward Albert. “Bowl to his leg side,” said Mr Plipp, “and vary the pace. I want him to hit.”

Fear and pride mingled in Edward Albert’s heart as he handled the ball. As he felt for its creases, he had a curious feeling of unfamiliarity. This ball was showing signs of wear, he thought.... But now to bowl, If he aimed about a yard or so to the right he might get the wicket. It often happened like that. He would do that. To begin with he would try one of his short sneakers. It pitched short and rolled slowly towards the wicket The giant, who seemed now ten feet high and broad in proportion, awaited its Doming with some hesitation. It was not the sort of ball he was accustomed to deal with. He wasn’t prepared for anything so feeble. He simply blocked the ball.

“Well bowled, Tewler,” cried Nuts derisively. Jealous? Yes, but next time...

Our hero resolved to vary his attack. He would send in a few very simple grounders to the giant’s leg. One fast and then a slow twister? Down there. Out of his reach, perhaps. The fast one first. Edward Albert put all his strength into it and alas! up went the ball in the air. Up, up, it went—a perfect Yorker. He’d slog it to—heaven! But the giant, expecting another lob, had been advancing to smite. This strange ball, high in the air, made him hesitate, and, hesitating, he was lost. He remembered what he had to do just half a second too late. He stepped across the pitch and hit hard to leg. Swish! Click! The leg bail dropped. Flop, went the ball into Mr Myame’s gloves. To Goliath’s astonishment, to Edward Albert’s astonishment, to everyone’s astonishment, the ball had got the leg stump. “Howzat, Umpire?” came Mr Myame’s astonished voice as he held up the ball.

“Out!” came the verdict.

“Oh, GorORMIGHTY!” cried Nuts out loud and unreproved. Butter-fingers had clean bowled Goliath. Clean bowled him, Sir!

The rest of the innings was inglorious. Two of the College kids made two runs, and there was a wide, and, strangely enough, Edward Albert was not asked to bowl again. The back of the defence was broken. Mr Plipp resumed his celebrated googlies and Mr Myame bowled three overs, and the last man was out.

The College had been disposed of for twenty-four, eighteen actual runs, a wide, three byes and two no-balls by Mr Myame overrunning the crease. The black and whites went in at last to a possible victory. This time they just might do it. Mr. Plipp displayed an unwonted disposition to slog, scored sixteen, and was caught out by Goliath at long on.

Mr Myame compiled a cautious five and was clean bowled by the lean and long Old Boy, who also gave four byes from his bowling. Edward Albert did not actually score a run, but the end of the innings left him in so that he “carried his bat “triumphantly” not out.” Nothing remained but the cheering. The school had won by six wickets, and Edward Albert was the hero of the day.

“A fine match,” said the Principal, shaking hands with Mr Myame.

Bert wanted to throw catches to some of the other chaps, but he found Mr Plipp had pocketed the ball. “No, you don’t want them to see you miss your catches,” said Mr Plipp, with unusual snappiness.

The College retired in good order, discussing the glorious uncertainties of the game, and the victorious school fell into column with the annual match tea (currant bread and jam, day-boys invited), enlivening its outlook.

As they left the park a young man in flannels came hurrying after Mr Myame. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve been playing most of the time with the wrong ball. He produced a nice new red match ball as he spoke, and handed it to the Headmaster.

“Hm,” said Mr Myame gravely. “That certainly has a resemblance to our ball, but—”

He looked across at the departing College. It was far away and out of earshot. He turned a perplexed and heavy face to Mr Plipp. “Odd,” he said. Mr Plipp took the ball and immediately put it into his pocket, producing another with the greatest promptitude. “That is yours,” he said.

“That is ours,” said the young man. “It’s a Lillywhite, Yours is a Duke. I hope this won’t upset your game in any way. We didn’t notice at first.”

“I hit two boundaries,” said Mr Plipp. “The change may have occurred then. Just at the end of the game.”

“I think it occurred rather earlier,” said the young man,

“ I really don’t know of any rule of the M.C.C. on the matter.”

“Nor do I,” said Mr Plipp.

Mr Myame reflected. There was a pause of several seconds and then he coughed and his hirsute adornments sprang to attention. “Let us assume,” he said, “that there has been at some time in this game a temporary and beneficial substitution of one ball for another, then, the question arises, was this a deliberate and dishonest substitution of one ball for another, or was it due to some entirely innocent misapprehension? In the former case we have no right to our victory. No, Sir. None whatever. We have to call this match off as—” he sought for an appropriate phrase—“a non sequitur . But if, on the other hand, the substitution by the player was pure and honest—and I happen to know this young Tewler as one of the most earnest young Christians in my charge, a veritable Child of God, let alone that he was suffering from considerable pain at the time from die concussion of the ball, then I have no hesitation whatever in saying that not only are we entitled to this match, but that it was meant and intended that we should win this match. The stars in their courses, if one may put it humbly and reverently, were fighting for us, and it would be sheer ingratitude—ingratitude—to quibble over this victory.”

The young man regarded Mr Myame with a qualified admiration, “That doesn’t leave anything more to be said about it, Sir, does it?” he said, pitching up his recovered ball and catching it again.