The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
Jolly Old Girl, and asked eagerly after the picture gallery; I was moved almost to tears, and when we went together to the terrace, and found Mrs L.L., I could not but remark that H. paid her no more than the barest civility (and, indeed, there was very little about her to Entice any man, for she appeared quite bedraggled), but was all kindness and attentiveness to me, like the dear best of husbands that he is.
But what am I to think of Don S.’s conduct? I must try not to judge him too harshly, for he is of such a warm temperament, and given to passionate disclosure of it in every way, that it is not to be wondered at if he is Susceptible to that which he finds attractive. But surely I am not to blame if – through no fault of mine – I have been cast by Kind Nature in a form and feature which the Stronger Sex find pleasing? I console myself with the thought that it is Woman’s Portion, if she is fortunate in her endowments, to be adored, and she has little to reproach herself with so long as she does not Encourage Familiarity, but comports herself with Proper Modesty …
[Conceit and humbug! End of extract – G. de R.]
a Side-whiskers.
b In the know, well-informed.
c Pocket.
There’s no doubt that a good gallop before work is the best training you can have, for that afternoon I bowled the best long spell of my life for Mynn’s Casuals against the All-England XI: five wickets for 12 in eleven overs, with Lillywhite leg before and Marsden clean bowled amongst them. I’d never have done that on cold baths and dumbbells, so you can see that what our present Test match fellows need is some sporting female like Mrs Leo Lade to look after ’em, then we’d have the Australians begging for mercy.
The only small cloud on my horizon, as we took tea afterwards in the marquee among the fashionable throng, with Elspeth clinging to my arm and Mynn passing round bubbly in the challenge cup we’d won, was whether Solomon had recognized me in the drawing-room that morning, and if so, would he keep his mouth shut? I wasn’t over concerned, for all he’d had in view was my stalwart back and buttocks heaving away and Mrs Lade’s stupefied face reflected in the mirror – it didn’t matter a three-ha’penny what he said about her, and even if he’d recognized me as t’other coupler, it wasn’t likely that he’d bruit it about; chaps didn’t, in those days. And there wasn’t even a hint of a knowing twinkle in his eye as he came over to congratulate me, all cheery smiles, refilling my glass and exclaiming to Elspeth that her husband was the most tearaway bowler in the country, and ought to be in the All-England side himself, blessed if he shouldn’t. A few of those present cried, “Hear, hear,” and Solomon wagged his head admiringly – the artful, conniving scoundrel.
“D’ye know,” says he, addressing those nearest, who included many of his house party, as well as Mynn and Felix and Ponsonby-Fane, “I shouldn’t wonder if Harry wasn’t the fastest man in England just now – I don’t say the best, in deference to distinguished company” – and he bowed gracefully towards Mynn – “but certainly the quickest; what d’you think, Mr Felix?”
Felix blinked and blushed, as he always did at being singled out, and said he wasn’t sure; when he was at the crease, he added gravely, he didn’t consider miles per hour, but any batter who faced Mynn at one end and me at t’other would have something to tell his grandchildren about. Everyone laughed, and Solomon cries, lucky men indeed; wouldn’t tyro cricketers like himself just jump at the chance of facing a few overs from us. Not that they’d last long, to be sure, but the honour would be worth it.
“I don’t suppose,” he added, fingering his earring and looking impish at me, “you’d consider playing me a single-wicket match, would you?”
Being cheerful with bubbly and my five for 12, I laughed and said I’d be glad to oblige, but he’d better get himself cover from Lloyd’s, or a suit of armour. “Why,” says I, “d’you fancy your chance?” and he shrugged and said no, not exactly; he knew he mightn’t make much of a show, but he was game to try. “After all,” says he, tongue in cheek, “you ain’t Fuller Pilch as a batter, you know.”
There are moments, and they have a habit of sticking in memory, when light-hearted, easy fun suddenly becomes dead serious. I can picture that moment now; the marquee with its throng of men in their whites, the ladies in their bright summer confections, the stuffy smell of grass and canvas, the sound of the tent-flap stirring in the warm breeze, the tinkle of plates and glasses, the chatter and the polite laughter, Elspth smiling eagerly over her strawberries and cream, Mynn’s big red face glistening, and Solomon opposite me – huge and smiling in his bottle-green coat, the emerald pin in his scarf, the brown varnished face with its smiling dark eyes, the carefully-dressed black curls and whiskers, the big, delicately-manicured hand spinning his glass by the stem.
“Just for fun,” says he. “Give me something to boast about, anyway – play on my lawn at the house. Come on” – and he poked me in the ribs – “I dare you, Harry,” at which they chortled and said he was a game bird, all right.
I didn’t know, then, that it mattered, although something warned me that there was a hint of humbug about it, but with the champagne working and Elspeth miaowing eagerly I couldn’t see any harm.
“Very good,” says I, “they’re your ribs, you know. How many a side?”
“Oh, just the two of us,” says he. “No fieldsmen; bounds, of course, but no byes or overthrows. I’m not built for chasing,” and he patted his guts, smiling. “Couple of hands, what? Double my chance of winning a run or two.”
“What about stakes?” laughs Mynn. “Can’t have a match like this for just a tizzya,” winking at me.
“What you will,” says Solomon easily. “All one to me – fiver, pony, monkey, thou. – don’t matter, since I shan’t be winning it anyway.”
Now that’s the kind of talk that sends any sensible man diving for his hat and the nearest doorway, usually; otherwise you find yourself an hour later scribbling IOUs and trying to think of a false name. But this was different – after all, I was first-class, and he wasn’t even thought about; no one had seen him play, even. He couldn’t hope for anything against my expresses – and one thing was sure, he didn’t need my money.
“Hold on, though,” says I. “We ain’t all nabob millionaires, you know. Lieutenant’s half-pay don’t stretch—”
Elspeth absolutely reached for her reticule, d--n her, whispering that I must afford whatever Don Solomon put up, and while I was trying to hush her, Solomon says:
“Not a bit of it – I’ll wager the thou., on my side; it’s my proposal, after all, so I must be ready to stand the racket. Harry can put up what he pleases – what d’ye say, old boy?”
Well, everyone knew he was filthy rich and careless with it, so if he wanted to lose a thousand for the privilege of having me trim him up, I didn’t mind. I couldn’t think what to offer as a wager against his money, though, and said so.
“Well, make it a pint of ale,” says he, and then snapped his fingers. “Tell you what – I’ll name what your stake’s to be, and I promise you, if you lose and have to stump up, it’s something that won’t cost you a penny.”
“What’s that?” says I, all leery in a moment.
“Are you game?” cries he.
“Tell us my stake first,” says I.
“Well,