Piccadilly Jim - P. G. Wodehouse (best romance ebooks TXT) 📗

follows: Surrey First Innings Hayward, c Wooley, b Carr 67 Hobbs, run out 0 Hayes, st Huish, b Fielder 12 Ducat, b Fielder 33 Harrison, not out 11 Sandham, not out 6 Extras 10 Total (for four wickets) 139

Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.

“What is it you wish me to explain, sir?”

“Why, the whole thing. What’s it all about?”

“It’s perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss, and took first knock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward called Hobbs for a short run, but the latter was unable to get across and was thrown out by mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He went out of his ground and was stumped. Ducat and Hayward made a capital stand considering the stickiness of the wicket, until Ducat was bowled by a good length off-break and Hayward caught at second slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham played out time.”

Mr. Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I’d like to have it once again, slowly. Start with these figures. What does that sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward’s name?”

“He made sixty-seven runs, sir.”

“Sixty-seven! In one game?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why, Home-Run Baker couldn’t do it!”

“I am not familiar with Mr. Baker, sir.”

“I suppose you’ve never seen a ballgame?”

“Ballgame, sir?”

“A baseball game?”

“Never, sir.”

“Then, Bill,” said Mr. Crocker, reverting in his emotion to the bad habit of his early London days, “you haven’t lived. See here!”

Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr. Crocker had managed to preserve during the opening stages of the interview now definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly and he snorted like a warhorse. He clutched the butler by the sleeve and drew him closer to the table, then began to move forks, spoons, cups, and even the contents of his plate about the cloth with an energy little short of feverish.

“Bayliss!”

“Sir?”

“Watch!” said Mr. Crocker, with the air of an excitable high priest about to initiate a novice into the Mysteries.

He removed a roll from the basket.

“You see this roll? That’s the home plate. This spoon is first base. Where I’m putting this cup is second. This piece of bacon is third. There’s your diamond for you. Very well, then. These lumps of sugar are the infielders and the outfielders. Now we’re ready. Batter up? He stands here. Catcher behind him. Umps behind catcher.”

“Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?”

“Call him anything you like. It’s part of the game. Now here’s the box, where I’ve put this dab of marmalade, and here’s the pitcher, winding up.”

“The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?”

“I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets past me.”

“The box, then, is the bowler’s wicket?”

“Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher’s winding up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Here it comes, right in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaks for first. Outfielder⁠—this lump of sugar⁠—boots it. Bonehead! Batter touches second. Third? No! Get back! Can’t be done. Play it safe. Stick around the sack, old pal. Second batter up. Pitcher getting something on the ball now besides the cover. Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter up. See him rub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He’s good! He lets two alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes around to second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home for one run. That’s a game! Take it from me, Bill, that’s a game!”

Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himself into his lecture, Mr. Crocker sat down and refreshed himself with cold coffee.

“Quite an interesting game,” said Bayliss. “But I find, now that you have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though I have always known it under another name. It is played a great deal in this country.”

Mr. Crocker started to his feet.

“It is? And I’ve been five years here without finding it out! When’s the next game scheduled?”

“It is known in England as Rounders, sir. Children play it with a soft ball and a racquet, and derive considerable enjoyment from it. I had never heard of it before as a pastime for adults.”

Two shocked eyes stared into the butler’s face.

“Children?” The word came in a whisper.

“A racquet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You⁠—you didn’t say a soft ball?”

“Yes, sir.”

A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr. Crocker. He had lived five years in England, but not till this moment had he realised to the full how utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placed him, bound and helpless, in a country where they called baseball Rounders and played it with a soft ball.

He sank back into his chair, staring before him. And as he sat the wall seemed to melt and he was gazing upon a green field, in the centre of which a man in a grey uniform was beginning a Salome dance. Watching this person with a cold and suspicious eye, stood another uniformed man, holding poised above his shoulder a sturdy club. Two Masked Marvels crouched behind him in attitudes of watchful waiting. On wooden seats all around sat a vast multitude of shirt-sleeved spectators, and the air was full of voices.

One voice detached itself from the din.

“Peanuts! Get y’r peanuts!”

Something that was almost a sob shook Bingley Crocker’s ample frame. Bayliss the butler gazed down upon him with concern. He was sure the master was unwell.

The case of Mr. Bingley Crocker was one that would have provided an admirable “instance” for a preacher seeking to instil into an impecunious and sceptical flock the lesson that money does not of necessity bring with it happiness. And poetry has crystallised his position in the following stanza.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain.
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call,
Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.

Mr. Crocker had never lived in a thatched cottage, nor had his relations with the birds of his native land ever reached the stage of intimacy indicated by the