The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
than he was, and the crowd cheered every ball, seeing the slogger Flashy pinned to his crease.
However, I got over my first shakes, tried a drive or two, and had the satisfaction of seeing him tearing about and sweating while I ran a few singles. That was a thing about single wicket; even a good drive might not win you much, for to score one run you had to race to the bowler’s end and back, whereas in an ordinary match the same work would have brought you two. And all his careering about the outfield didn’t seem to trouble his bowling, which was as bad – but still as straight – as ever. But I hung on, and got to a dozen, and when he sent me a full pitch, I let fly and hit him clean over the house, running eight while he vanished frantically round the building, with the small boys whooping in his wake, and the ladies standing up and squeaking with excitement. I was haring away between the wickets, with the mob chanting each run, and was beginning to think I’d run past his total when he hove in sight again, trailing dung and nettles, and threw the ball across the crease, so that I had to leave off.
So there I was, with 20 runs, 12 still needed to win, and both of us blowing like whales. And now my great decision could be postponed no longer – was I going to beat him, and take the consequences from Tighe, or let him win and have a year in which to seduce Elspeth on his confounded boat? The thought of him murmuring greasily beside her at the taffrail while she got drunk on moonlight and flattery fairly maddened me, and I banged his next delivery against the front door for another three runs – and as I waited panting for his next ball, there under the trees was the beast Tighe, hat down on his brows and thumbs hooked in his weskit, staring at me, with his cudgel-coves behind him. I swallowed, missed the next ball, and saw it shave my bails by a whisker.
What the blazes should I do? Tighe was saying a word over his shoulder to one of his thugs – and I swung wildly at the next ball and sent it high over Solomon’s head. I was bound to run, and that was another two – seven to get to win. He bowled again, and for once produced a shooter; I poked frantically at it, got the edge, and it went scuttling away in front of the bounds for a single. Six to get, and the spectators were clapping and laughing and egging us on. I leaned on my bat, watching Tighe out of the corner of my eye and conjuring up nameless fears – no, they weren’t nameless. I couldn’t face the certainty of it being published that I’d taken money from a tout, and having his assassins walk on my face in a Haymarket alley into the bargain. I must lose – and if Solomon rogered Elspeth all over the Orient, well, I’d not be there to see it. I turned to look in her direction, and she stood up and waved to me, ever so pretty, calling encouragement; I looked at Solomon, his black hair wet with perspiration and his eyes glittering as he ran up to bowl – and I roared “No, by G-d!” and cut him square and hard, clean through a ground-floor window.
How they cheered, as Solomon thundered through the quality seats, the ladies fluttering to let him by, and the men laughing fit to burst; he hurtled through the front door, and as I completed my second run I turned to see that ominous figure in the red weskit; he and his cronies were the only still, silent members of that whole excited assembly. D--n Solomon – was he going to take all day finding the b----y ball? I had to run, with my nerve failing again; I lumbered up the pitch, and there was a great howl from the house; Solomon was emerging dishevelled and triumphant as I made the third run – only another three and the match was mine.
But I couldn’t face it; I knew I daren’t win – after all, I wasn’t any too confident of Elspeth’s virtue as it was; one Solomon more or less wasn’t going to make all that much difference – better be a cuckold than a disgraced cripple. I had wobbled in intent all through the past half-hour, but now I did my level best to hand Solomon the game. I swiped and missed, but my wicket remained intact; I prodded a catch at him, and it fell short; I played a ball to the off, went for a single that I hadn’t a hope of getting-and the great oaf, with nothing to do but throw down my wicket for victory, shied wildly wide in his excitement. I stumbled home, with the mob yelling delightedly; Solomon 31, Flashy 30, and even little Felix was hopping from one leg to the other as he signalled Solomon to bowl on.
There wasn’t a whisper round the field now. I waited at the crease, bowels dissolving, as Solomon stood doubled over, regaining his breath, and then picked up the ball. I was settled in my mind now: I’d wait for a straight one and miss it, and let myself be bowled out.
Would you believe it, his next three balls were as squint as a Jew’s conscience? He was dead beat with running, labouring like a cow in milk, and couldn’t keep direction at all. I let ’em go by, while the crowd groaned in disappointment, and when his next one looked like going wide altogether I had to play at it, like it or not; I scrambled across, trying desperately to pull it in his direction, muttering to myself: “If you can’t bowl me, for Ch---t’s sake catch me out, you ham-fisted buttock,” and in my panic I stumbled, took a frantic swipe – and drove the confounded ball miles over his head, high into the air. He turned and raced to get under it, and there was nothing I could do but leg it for the other end, praying to G-d he’d catch it. It was still in the air when I reached the bowler’s crease and turned, running backwards to watch; he was weaving about beneath it with his mouth open, arms outstretched, while the whole field waited breathless – down it came, down to his waiting hands, he clutched at it, held it, stumbled, fumbled-and to my horror and a great shriek from the mob, it bounced free – he made a despairing grab, measured his length on the turf, and there was the b----y ball rolling across the grass away from him.
“You – oh, you butter-fingered b-----d!” I roared, but it was lost in the tumult. I had regained my crease having scored one – but I was bound to try for the second, winning run with Solomon prostrate and the ball ten yards from him. “Run!” they were yelling, “run, Flashy!” and poor despairing Flashy couldn’t do anything else but obey – the match was in my grasp, and with hundreds watching I couldn’t be seen deliberately ignoring the chance to win it.
So I bounded forward again, full of sham eagerness, tripping artistically to give him a chance to reach the ball and run me out; I went down, rolling, and d---e, the brute was still grovelling after his dropped catch. I couldn’t lie there forever, so I went plunging on, as slowly as possible, like a man exhausted; even so, I had reached the bowler’s crease before he’d recovered the ball, and now his only chance was to shy the thing a full thirty yards and hit my wicket as I careered back to the batter’s end. I knew he hadn’t a hope in h--l, at that distance; all I could do was forge ahead to victory – and ruin at the hands of Tighe. The crowd were literally dancing as I bore down on the crease – three more strides would see me home and doomed – and then the ground rose up very gently in front of me, crowd and wicket vanished from view, the noise died away into a soothing murmur, and I was nestling comfortably against the turf, chewing placidly at the grass, thinking, this is just the thing, a nice, peaceful rest, how extremely pleasant …
I was staring up at the sky, with Felix in between, peering down anxiously, and behind him Mynn’s beefy face saying: “Get his head up – give him air. Here, a drink” – and a glass rattling against my teeth and the burning taste of brandy in my mouth. There was the deuce of a pain in the back of my head, and more anxious faces, and I heard Elspeth’s voice in distant, shrill inquiry, amidst a babble of chatter.
“What – what happened?” says I, as they raised me; my legs were like jelly, and Mynn had to hold me up.
“It’s all right!” cries Felix. “He tried to shy down your wicket – and the ball hit you crack on the back of the skull. Why, you went down like a shot rabbit!”
“He threw down your wicket, too – afterwards,” says Mynn. “D--n him.”
I blinked and touched my head; there was a lump growing like a football. Then here was Solomon, panting like a bellows, clasping my hand and crying: “My dear Harry – are you all right? My poor chap – let me see!” He was volleying out apologies, and Mynn was looking at him pretty cool, I noticed, while Felix fidgeted and the assembling mob were gaping at the sensation.
“You mean – I was out?” says I, trying to collect my wits.
“I’m afraid so!” cries Solomon. “You see, I was so confused, when I shied the ball, I didn’t realize it had hit you … saw you lying