CHAPTER IV

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*THE GREAT MATCH*

"God bless the grilling days of cricket! They're gone but I shall bless them ever, For good it is to guard a wicket By sudden wrist and big endeavour." NORMAN GALE.

"There's a breathless hush in the close to night, Ten to make and the match to win, A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in." HENRY NEWBOLT.

"Hawkins, stand out!"

"Please, sir, I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

"No, you wasn't doin' nothin', but you have been talking all morning, you tiresome boy! Write out 'disobedient' three hundred times after school."

The fact is, Tom was relating the bushranging episode to a schoolmate, and, like Tom Sawyer, he "laid over" considerably in his recital. While in the act of enlarging he was brought to book in this peremptory fashion by the master, and had to do penance with as little relish as most boys.

"Sorry you can't come out and play, Tom," said Joe Blain, poking his head into the empty schoolhouse after dismissal.

"It's a beastly shame! What are you fellows up to?"

"Goin' to practise for the Dingdongla match. After that we'll have a swim."

"Oh, rot it!" grunted the chagrined prisoner.

"Say, Tom, don't forget to come along to-night an' help pick the team."

"I'll be there, never fret."

"Well, so-long. Wire in, and keep your pecker up."

Dingdongla was an up-river settlement; Tareela a down-river town. The latter named was the older and more substantial place, being the headquarters of the shipping. As a consequence it was instinct with the superior air generally to be met with in places of metropolitan pretensions. In schools, too, the down-river town had the advantage. Its school building was of sawn timber, with a shingle roof. Furthermore, it possessed two teachers, and pine desks. While, on the other hand, the up-river academy was constructed of roughly adzed slabs and a bark roof.

For the Dingdonglas to be thrashed in cricket by the Tareelians was not considered to be a disgrace. _Per contra_, their victory was a splendid achievement, and a great humiliation to their opponents. The latter was fairly beaten by the former last season, and naught would restore their prestige save the administration of an unmitigated licking. So, at least, thought the match Committee, as they conned names, and analysed the merits of the candidates on the name list.

Needless to say, Joe, Tom, and Sandy headed the list of certainties. Yellow Billy came next; for though a very irregular attendant at school, he was a tremendous swiper when he got his eye in. Billy had dragged more than one match out of the fire.

Saturday morning broke fair. Shortly after an early breakfast a cavalcade of about twenty youthful horsemen, followed by two teachers in a gig, were scampering along the bush road to Dingdongla, distant about nine miles up the river. Oh, the merry, merry days of youth! Those are the days of the superlative mood.

It was a merry, roaring, romping, racing crowd of youngsters that tore along the bush track. They jumped fallen timber and gullies; chased the flying marsupial; and spurted in couples for short lengths. There were minor accidents, 'tis true. Pincher Putnan's horse, in a fit of pig-jumping, broke a girth, sending Pincher and saddle to mother earth. Yellow Billy's half-broken brumby fairly bolted in a race, cleared off the road, and rushed through a belt of timber at breakneck speed, towards his native haunts in the Nulla ranges. It was only the superb horsemanship of the half-caste that saved him from being dashed against the trees in the headlong flight.

In due time Dingdongla is reached. The horses are turned out in a maize stubble paddock, where is a fine picking, and the boys stroll on to the ground to have a look at the pitch.

"Whatyer think of the pitch, Joe?"

"You'll have to keep your eye skinned for shooters Rody. The ball'll keep very low. Must keep a straight bat and forward play."

The stumps, like much of the material, were home-made. The Dingdonglas had only one "spring handle"; the others were chopped out of beech boards. The Tareelians were not much better off for material. They, it is true, had two "spring handles,"--more or less battered,--and could boast a pair of wicket gloves, but for the rest were like their opponents, sans leggings and gloves. That, however, was a small item; for every boy who possessed boots doffed them, rolling his trouser legs to the knees and his shirt sleeves to the elbows.

"Got all your men, Wilson?" said Joe to the Dingdonglas' captain.

"Yes, they're all here. May as well toss for innin's, Joe."

"Right you are," responds Joe, ejecting a jet of saliva on a piece of flat wood. "Shall I toss, or you?"

"You toss, Joe."

"Call you!" cried Blain, tossing the board with a twirl skywards. "Wet or dry?"

"Wet!" called Wilson, as the wood spun in the air.

"Dry!" exclaimed Joe, as it lay on the ground with its dry side uppermost. "We've won, and go in."

"Tom," said he a moment later, "you and Yellow Billy go in first, an' you take the strike."

The batsmen were soon in their places, and the Dingdongs in the field. The innings opened fairly well for the Tareelians. Yellow Billy got quickly to work, and laid on the wood to some purpose; Tom playing carefully the while.

Facing the Dingdonglas' swift bowler, after a smart short-hit run Billy sent a well-pitched ball for four, a rattling, straight-hit drive. But in trying to repeat the stroke off the next ball he misjudged, and, skying the sphere, was easily caught.

"One wicket for twenty!" of which the half-caste contributed fifteen.

After this the troubles of the batsmen set in. The Dingdongs were strong in bowling talent, and possessed a local Spofforth, whose lightning deliveries shot and kicked in a marvellous fashion. Joe, going in fifth man, stayed the "rot" for a while, but was foolishly run out by his mate.

The Tareelians were all out in an hour for the small total of forty-seven. If the down-river boys were despondent over this score, the up-rivers were correspondingly jubilant. Going to the wickets with plenty of confidence, they rattled up ninety-nine before the last wicket fell; the captain carrying out his bat for a well-earned forty-two.

Adjournment for lunch was now made. We call it lunch by courtesy. It was a big bush feed. This repast was served in the schoolhouse, the rough desks being converted into tables, which were literally covered with good things.

The Dingdonglas' mothers were determined that, whoever won, the boys of both sides should have a rippin' feed. A stuffed sucking-pig, whose savoury odour filled the room, lay at one end. Roast wild duck and a cold pigeon-pie balanced it at the other. An immense round of spiced beef, standing in the centre of the long table, seemed to say: "You may cut and come again." Potatoes and pumpkins smoked in big tin bowls, and all the available space was filled with cakes, puddings, and pies. Needless to say, the onslaught was terrific. They were all sloggers at tuck. Meats, puddings, cakes, tea, and ginger-beer disappeared like magic.

All good things mundane, however, come to an end; especially when the good thing happens to be a dinner. And now, after divers whisperings and nudgings, up stood Captain Joe, amid the cheers of his side.

Joe was silent a moment, nervously looking up and down the board, and heartily wishing himself at the bottom of the deep blue sea. "Mr. Chairman" (addressing the local schoolmaster), "I--we--that is--us fellows from Tareela asked me to tell you--I mean to say, that--that--that--a--it gives us much pleasure--er--er--oh, hang it all!--I--I mean--er--this is the jolliest blow in the way of tuck we've ever had." Joe subsided to the rattle of the knives on the bare board. As soon as the noise ceased, Tom Hawkins jumped up and called: "Three cheers for the Dingdonglas!" which were heartily given.

Half an hour's lounge, and the battle began afresh.

"We've got fifty-two to wipe out before we start even, boys. We can do it, and score plenty more to win the game, if we keep our heads. Anyway, we must have a big try. Billy an' I'll go in first; Tom next, and then Pincher. The order of the rest of you depends on the way things turn out."

"Look here, Billy," continued the captain, as the two batsmen walked to the wickets. "They've got two slashing bowlers, but if we can manage to knock 'em out they've no one else of much account. Get your eye well in before you do any slogging."

"All right, Joe! Do me best."

"Your best means steady play and a big score. I'll take the strike."

If Joe was nervous in public speech it was not observable in action. He played Ginger Smith's fast deliveries with confidence, punishing the loose balls and blocking the straight ones. Billy, too, was playing with unwonted caution, and the score, though slowly, was surely mounting up; until after half an hour's play it stood at twenty-five, with no wickets down. There were no boundaries, and every hit was run out.

"Oh, glory, what a swipe!"

Yellow Billy had got hold of one of Ginger's leg balls with a mighty lunge. The ball seemed as if it would go on for ever, and finally rolled into a gutter. They ran six for it.

There was great cheering among the Tareelians. Mr. Simpson, who umpired, forgot for a moment his impartial office. Flinging his hat into the air, he cried, "Bravo, Billy!"

"Thirty-one an' none out. Only twenty-one to get level!"

The boys were now scoring faster; singles, twos, threes were coming with great rapidity. Joe made his first four, a sweet, square cut.

"Forty-nine an' no wickets down!"

Joe faced the new bowler. The local demon had begun to bowl wildly, and was relieved.

"They'll never bowl them!" cried young Ben Wilde, as Joe took block for the new-comer--a lad with a reputation for slow left-hand twisters. The first ball was pitched on the leg stump; just the ball for Joe's favourite leg glance.

It went for two.

"Only one to make us even!" shouted Tom to his captain. The second ball was pitched in exactly the same spot, and Joe proceeded to treat it in the same fashion. The sphere, however, had a little more twist on it than its predecessor, and, breaking on to the left bail, flicked it off.

There was a great chorus of disappointment among the Tareelians, and hearty cheers from their opponents, as the captain's wicket fell. His twenty-one, got by true cricket, was worth twice that number by reason of the spirit of confidence he had infused.

Billy and Tom carried the score to seventy-three, when the latter was caught for ten. Pincher fell a victim to a very simple ball from an under-hand lob bowler, after making seven. Sandy gave the bowlers some trouble, and got into double figures before he retired. All this while Billy was scoring well, and, when Sandy's wicket fell, had made fifty runs. All the boys scored less or more; and when the innings closed had compiled a total of one hundred and thirty-seven, of which Billy made seventy-one and not out. This was a grand achievement, and the half-caste was carried off the ground amid great applause.

This left the Dingdongs eighty-six runs to win, which they failed to do by seventeen runs, Sleepy Sam stumping no less than three off young Ben's slow lobs.

There was great cheering as the victorious cricketers rode in the dusk of the evening through the main street of Tareela, after a grand day's fun.

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