The Wonder Read online

  CHAPTER II

  NOTES FOR A BIOGRAPHY OF GINGER STOTT

  I

  Ginger Stott is a name that was once as well known as any in England.Stott has been the subject of leading articles in every daily paper; hislife has been written by an able journalist who interviewed Stotthimself, during ten crowded minutes, and filled three hundred pages withdetails, seventy per cent. of which were taken from the journals, andthe remainder supplied by a brilliant imagination. Ten years ago GingerStott was on a pinnacle, there was a Stott vogue. You found his name atthe bottom of signed articles written by members of the editorial staff;you bought Stott collars, although Stott himself did not wear collars;there was a Stott waltz, which is occasionally hummed by clerks, andwhistled by errand-boys to this day; there was a periodical which livedfor ten months, entitled _Ginger Stott's Weekly_; in brief, during onesummer there was a Stott apotheosis.

  But that was ten years ago, and the rising generation has almostforgotten the once well-known name. One rarely sees him mentioned in themorning paper now, and then it is but the briefest reference; some suchnote as this "Pickering was at the top of his form, recalling the finestachievements of Ginger Stott at his best," or "Flack is a magnificentfind for Kent: he promises to completely surpass the historic feats ofGinger Stott." These journalistic superlatives only irritate those whoremember the performances referred to. We who watched the man's careerknow that Pickering and Flack are but tyros compared to Stott; we knowthat none of his successors has challenged comparison with him. He was ameteor that blazed across the sky, and if he ever has a true successor,such stars as Pickering and Flack will shine pale and dim in comparison.

  It makes one feel suddenly old to recall that great matinee at theLyceum, given for Ginger Stott's benefit after he met with his accident.In ten years so many great figures in that world have died or falleninto obscurity. I can count on my fingers the number of those who werethen, and are still, in the forefront of popularity. Of the others poorCaptain Wallis, for instance, is dead--and no modern writer, in myopinion, can equal the brilliant descriptiveness of Wallis's articles inthe _Daily Post_. Bobby Maisefield, again, Stott's colleague, is amartyr to rheumatism, and keeps a shop in Ailesworth, the scene of somany of his triumphs. What a list one might make, but how uselessly. Itis enough to note how many names have dropped out, how many others arethe names of those we now speak of as veterans. In ten years! Itcertainly makes one feel old.

  II

  No apology is needed for telling again the story of Stott's career.Certain details will still be familiar, it is true, the historic detailsthat can never be forgotten while cricket holds place as our nationalgame. But there are many facts of Stott's life familiar to me, whichhave never been made public property. If I must repeat that which isknown, I can give the known a new setting; perhaps a new value.

  He came of mixed races. His mother was pure Welsh, his father aYorkshire collier; but when Ginger was nine years old his father died,and Mrs. Stott came to live in Ailesworth where she had immigrantrelations, and it was there that she set up the little paper-shop, thebusiness by which she maintained herself and her boy. That shop is stillin existence, and the name has not been altered. You may find it in thelittle street that runs off the market place, going down towards theBorstal Institution.

  There are many people alive in Ailesworth to-day who can remember thesturdy, freckled, sandy-haired boy who used to go round with the morningand evening papers; the boy who was to change the fortunes of a county.

  Ginger was phenomenally thorough in all he undertook. It was one of thesecrets of his success. It was this thoroughness that kept him engagedin his mother's little business until he was seventeen. Up to that agehe never found time for cricket--sufficient evidence of his remarkableand most unusual qualities.

  It was sheer chance, apparently, that determined his choice of a career.

  He had walked into Stoke-Underhill to deliver a parcel, and on his wayback his attention was arrested by the sight of a line of vehicles drawnup to the boarded fencing that encloses the Ailesworth County Ground.The occupants of these vehicles were standing up, struggling to catch asight of the match that was being played behind the screen erected toshut out non-paying sightseers. Among the horses' feet, squirmingbetween the spokes of wheels, utterly regardless of all injury, smallboys glued their eyes to knot-holes in the fence, while others climbedsurreptitiously, and for the most part unobserved, on to the backs oftradesmen's carts. All these individuals were in a state of tremendousexcitement, and even the policeman whose duty it was to move them on,was so engrossed in watching the game that he had disappeared inside theturnstile, and had given the outside spectators full opportunity foreleemosynary enjoyment.

  That tarred fence has since been raised some six feet, and now enclosesa wider sweep of ground--alterations that may be classed among the minorrevolutions effected by the genius of the thick-set, fair-haired youthof seventeen, who paused on that early September afternoon to wonderwhat all the fuss was about. The Ailesworth County Ground was not famousin those days; not then was accommodation needed for thirty thousandspectators, drawn from every county in England to witness theunparallelled.

  Ginger stopped. The interest of the spectacle pierced his absorption inthe business he had in hand. Such a thing was almost unprecedented.

  "What's up?" he asked of Puggy Phillips.

  Puggy Phillips--hazarding his life by standing on the shiny, slightlycurved top of his butcher's cart--made no appropriate answer."Yah--_ah_--AH!" he screamed in ecstasy. "Oh! played! Pla-a-a-ayed!!"

  Ginger wasted no more breath, but laid hold of the little brass railthat encircled Puggy's platform, and with a sudden hoist that lifted theshafts and startled the pony, raised himself to the level of aspectator.

  "'Ere!" shouted the swaying, tottering Puggy. "What the ... are yer rupto?"

  The well-drilled pony, however, settled down again quietly to maintainhis end of the see-saw, and, finding himself still able to preserve hisequilibrium, Puggy instantly forgot the presence of the intruder.

  "What's up?" asked Ginger again.

  "Oh! Well _'it_, WELL 'IT!" yelled Puggy. "Oh! Gow on, gow on agen! Runit _aht_. Run it AH-T."

  Ginger gave it up, and turned his attention to the match.

  It was not any famous struggle that was being fought out on the oldAilesworth Ground; it was only second-class cricket, the deciding matchof the Minor Counties championship. Hampdenshire and Oxfordshire, oldrivals, had been neck-and-neck all through the season, and, as luckwould have it, the engagement between them had been the last fixture onthe card.

  When Ginger rose to the level of spectator, the match was anybody'sgame. Bobby Maisefield was batting. He was then a promising young coltwho had not earned a fixed place in the Eleven. Ginger knew himsocially, but they were not friends, they had no interests in common.Bobby had made twenty-seven. He was partnered by old Trigson, thebowler, (he has been dead these eight years,) whose characteristic scoreof "Not out ... 0," is sufficiently representative of his methods.

  It was the fourth innings, and Hampdenshire with only one more wicket tofall, still required nineteen runs to win. Trigson could be relied uponto keep his wicket up, but not to score. The hopes of Ailesworth centredin the ability of that almost untried colt Bobby Maisefield--and heseemed likely to justify the trust reposed in him. A beautiful late cutthat eluded third man and hit the fence with a resounding bang, nearlydrove Puggy wild with delight.

  "Only fifteen more," he shouted. "Oh! Played; pla-a-a-yed!"

  But as the score crept up, the tensity grew. As each ball was delivered,a chill, rigid silence held the onlookers in its grip. When Trigson,with the field collected round him, almost to be covered with a sheet,stonewalled the most tempting lob, the click of the ball on his bat wasan intrusion on the stillness. And always it was followed by a deepbreath of relief that sighed round the ring like a faint wind through aplantation of larches. When Bobby scored, the tumult broke out like acrash of thunder;
but it subsided again, echoless, to that intensesilence so soon as the ball was "dead."

  Curiously, it was not Bobby who made the winning hit but Trigson. "Oneto tie, two to win," breathed Puggy as the field changed over, and itwas Trigson who had to face the bowling. The suspense was torture.Oxford had put on their fast bowler again, and Trigson, intimidated,perhaps, did not play him with quite so straight a bat as he had opposedto the lob-bowler. The ball hit Trigson's bat and glanced through theslips. The field was very close to the wicket, and the ball wastravelling fast. No one seemed to make any attempt to stop it. For amoment the significance of the thing was not realised; for a momentonly, then followed uproar, deafening, stupendous.

  Puggy was stamping fiercely on the top of his cart; the tears werestreaming down his face; he was screaming and yelling incoherent words.And he was representative of the crowd. Thus men shouted and stamped andcried when news came of the relief of Kimberley, or when that falsereport of victory was brought to Paris in the August of 1870....

  The effect upon Ginger was a thing apart. He did not join in the fierceacclamation; he did not wait to see the chairing of Bobby and Trigson.The greatness of Stott's character, the fineness of his genius isdisplayed in his attitude towards the dramatic spectacle he had justwitnessed.

  As he trudged home into Ailesworth, his thoughts found vent in amuttered sentence which is peculiarly typical of the effect that hadbeen made upon him.

  "I believe I could have bowled that chap," he said.

  III

  In writing a history of this kind, a certain licence must be claimed. Itwill be understood that I am filling certain gaps in the narrative withimagined detail. But the facts are true. My added detail is onlyintended to give an appearance of life and reality to my history. Letme, therefore, insist upon one vital point. I have not been dependent onhearsay for one single fact in this story. Where my experience does notdepend upon personal experience, it has been received from theprincipals themselves. Finally, it should be remembered that when Ihave, imaginatively, put words into the mouths of the persons of thisstory, they are never essential words which affect the issue. Theessential speeches are reported from first-hand sources. For instance,Ginger Stott himself has told me on more than one occasion that thewords with which I closed the last section, were the actual words spokenby him on the occasion in question. It was not until six years after thegreat Oxfordshire match that I myself first met the man, but whatfollows is literally true in all essentials.

  There was a long, narrow strip of yard, or alley, at the back of Mrs.Stott's paper-shop, a yard that, unfortunately, no longer exists. It hasbeen partly built over, and another of England's memorials has thus beendestroyed by the vandals of modern commerce....

  This yard was fifty-three feet long, measuring from Mrs. Stott's backdoor to the door of the coal-shed, which marked the alley's extremelimit. This measurement, an apparently negligible trifle, had animportant effect upon Stott's career. For it was in this yard that hetaught himself to bowl, and the shortness of the pitch precluded histaking any run. From those long studious hours of practice he emergedwith a characteristic that was--and still remains--unique. Stott nevertook more than two steps before delivering the ball; frequently hebowled from a standing position, and batsmen have confessed that of allStott's puzzling mannerisms, this was the one to which they never becameaccustomed. S. R. L. Maturin, the finest bat Australia ever sent to thiscountry, has told me that to this peculiarity of delivery he attributedhis failure ever to score freely against Stott. It completely upsetone's habit of play, he said: one had no time to prepare for the flightof the ball; it came at one so suddenly. Other bowlers have sinceattempted some imitation of this method without success. They had notStott's physical advantages.

  Nevertheless, the shortness of that alley threw Stott back for twoyears. When he first emerged to try conclusions on the field, he foundhis length on the longer pitch utterly unreliable, and the effortnecessary to throw the ball another six yards, at first upset his slowlyacquired methods.

  It was not until he was twenty years old that Ginger Stott played in hisfirst Colts' match.

  The three years that had intervened had not been prosperous years forHampdenshire. Their team was a one-man team. Bobby Maisefield wasdeveloping into a fine bat (and other counties were throwing outinducements to him, trying to persuade him to qualify for first-classcricket), but he found no support, and Hampdenshire was never lookedupon as a coming county. The best of the minor counties in those yearswere Staffordshire and Norfolk.

  In the Colts' match Stott's analysis ran:

  overs maidens runs wickets 11.3 7 16 7

  and reference to the score-sheet, which is still preserved among therecords of the County Club, shows that six of the seven wickets wereclean bowled. The Eleven had no second innings; the match was drawn,owing to rain. Stott has told me that the Eleven had to bat on a drywicket, but after making all allowances, the performance was certainlyremarkable.

  After this match Stott was, of course, played regularly. That yearHampdenshire rose once more to their old position at the head of theminor counties, and Maisefield, who had been seriously consideringSurrey's offer of a place in their Eleven after two years' qualificationby residence, decided to remain with the county which had given him hisfirst chance.

  During that season Stott did not record any performance so remarkable ashis feat in the Colts' match, but his record for the year waseighty-seven wickets with an average of 9.31; and it is worthy of noticethat Yorkshire made overtures to him, as he was qualified by birth toplay for the northern county.

  I think there must have been a wonderful _esprit de corps_ among themembers of that early Hampdenshire Eleven. There are other evidencesbeside this refusal of its two most prominent members to join the ranksof first-class cricket. Lord R----, the president of the H.C.C.C., hastold me that this spirit was quite as marked as in the earlier case ofKent. He himself certainly did much to promote it, and his generosity inmaking good the deficits of the balance sheet, had a great influence onthe acceleration of Hampdenshire's triumph.

  In his second year, though Hampdenshire were again champions of thesecond-class counties, Stott had not such a fine average as in thepreceding season. Sixty-one wickets for eight hundred and sixty-eight(average 14.23) seems to show a decline in his powers, but that was awonderful year for batsmen (Maisefield scored seven hundred andforty-two runs, with an average of forty-two) and, moreover, that wasthe year in which Stott was privately practising his new theory.

  It was in this year that three very promising recruits, all since becomefamous, joined the Eleven, viz.: P. H. Evans, St. John Townley, andFlower the fast bowler. With these five cricketers Hampdenshire fullydeserved their elevation into the list of first-class counties.Curiously enough, they took the place of the old champions,Gloucestershire, who, with Somerset, fell back into the obscurity of thesecond-class that season.

  IV

  I must turn aside for a moment at this point in order to explain the"new theory" of Stott's, to which I have referred, a theory which becamein practice one of the elements of his most astounding successes.

  Ginger Stott was not a tall man. He stood only 5 ft. 5-1/4 in. in hissocks, but he was tremendously solid; he had what is known as a "stocky"figure, broad and deep-chested. That was where his muscular power lay,for his abnormally long arms were rather thin, though his huge handswere powerful enough.

  Even without his "new theory," Stott would have been an exceptionalbowler. His thoroughness would have assured his success. He studied hisart diligently, and practised regularly in a barn through the winter.His physique, too, was a magnificent instrument. That long, muscularbody was superbly steady on the short, thick legs. It gave him afulcrum, firm, apparently immovable. And those weirdly long, thin armscould move with lightning rapidity. He always stood with his handsbehind him, and then--as often as not without even one preliminarystep--the long arm would flash round and the ball be delivered
, withoutgiving the batsman any opportunity of watching his hand; you could nevertell which way he was going to break. It was astonishing, too, the pacehe could get without any run. Poor Wallis used to call him the "humancatapult"; Wallis was always trying to find new phrases.

  The theory first came to Stott when he was practising at the nets. Itwas a windy morning, and he noticed that several times the balls hebowled swerved in the air. When those swerving balls came they werealmost unplayable.

  Stott made no remark to any one--he was bowling to the groundsman--butthe ambition to bowl "swerves,"[1] as they were afterwards called, tookpossession of him from that morning. It is true that he never masteredthe theory completely; on a perfectly calm day he could never dependupon obtaining any swerve at all, but, within limits, he developed histheory until he had any batsman practically at his mercy.

  He might have mastered the theory completely, had it not been for hisaccident--we must remember that he had only three seasons of first-classcricket--and, personally, I believe he would have achieved that completemastery. But I do not believe, as Stott did, that he could have taughthis method to another man. That belief became an obsession with him, andwill be dealt with later.

  My own reasons for doubting that Stott's "swerve" could have beentaught, is that it would have been necessary for the pupil to have hadStott's peculiarities, not only of method, but of physique. He used tospin the ball with a twist of his middle finger and thumb, just as youmay see a billiard professional spin a billiard ball. To do this in hismanner, it is absolutely necessary not only to have a very large andmuscular hand, but to have very lithe and flexible arm muscles, for thearm is moving rapidly while the twist is given, and there must be noantagonistic muscular action. Further, I believe that part of the secretwas due to the fact that Stott bowled from a standing position. Giventhese things, the rest is merely a question of long and assiduouspractice. The human mechanism is marvellously adaptable. I have seenStott throw a cricket ball half across the room with sufficient spin onthe ball to make it shoot back to him along the carpet.

  I have mentioned the wind as a factor in obtaining the swerve. It was ahead-wind that Stott required. I have seen him, for sport, toss acricket ball into the teeth of a gale, and make it describe thetrajectory of a badly sliced golf-ball. This is why the big pavilion atAilesworth is set at such a curious angle to the ground. It was built inthe winter following Hampdenshire's second season of first-classcricket, and it was so placed that when the wickets were pitched in aline with it, they might lie south-west and north-east, or in thedirection of the prevailing winds.

  V

  The first time I ever saw Ginger Stott, was on the occasion of thehistoric encounter with Surrey; Hampdenshire's second engagement infirst-class cricket. The match with Notts, played at Trent Bridge a fewdays earlier, had not foreshadowed any startling results. The truth ofthe matter is that Stott had been kept, deliberately, in the background;and as matters turned out his services were only required to finish offNotts' second innings. Stott was even then a marked man, and theHampdenshire captain did not wish to advertise his methods too freelybefore the Surrey match. Neither Archie Findlater, who was captainingthe team that year, nor any other person, had the least conception ofhow unnecessary such a reservation was to prove. In his third year, whenStott had been studied by every English, Australian, and South Africanbatsman of any note, he was still as unplayable as when he made hisdebut in first-class cricket.

  I was reporting the Surrey match for two papers, and in company withpoor Wallis interviewed Stott before the first innings.

  His appearance made a great impression on me. I have, of course, methim, and talked with him many times since then, but my most vividmemory of him is the picture recorded in the inadequate professionaldressing-room of the old Ailesworth pavilion.

  I have turned up the account of my interview in an old press-cuttingbook, and I do not know that I can do better than quote that part of itwhich describes Stott's personal appearance. I wrote the account on theoff chance of being able to get it taken. It was one of my lucky hits.After that match, finished in a single day, my interview afforded copythat any paper would have paid heavily for, and gladly.

  Here is the description:

  "Stott--he is known to every one in Ailesworth as 'Ginger' Stott--is a short, thick-set young man, with abnormally long arms that are tanned a rich red up to the elbow. The tan does not, however, obliterate the golden freckles with which arm and face are richly speckled. There is no need to speculate as to the _raison d'etre_ of his nickname. The hair of his head, a close, short crop, is a pale russet, and the hair on his hands and arms is a yellower shade of the same colour. 'Ginger' is, indeed, a perfectly apt description. He has a square chin and a thin-lipped, determined mouth. His eyes are a clear, but rather light blue, his forehead is good, broad, and high, and he has a well-proportioned head. One might have put him down as an engineer, essentially intelligent, purposeful, and reserved."

  The description is journalistic, but I do not know that I could improveupon the detail of it. I can see those queer, freckled, hairy arms ofhis as I write--the combination of colours in them produced an effectthat was almost orange. It struck one as unusual....

  Surrey had the choice of innings, and decided to bat, despite the factthat the wicket was drying after rain, under the influence of a steadysouth-west wind and occasional bursts of sunshine. Would any captain inStott's second year have dared to take first innings under suchconditions? The question is farcical now, but not a single member of theHampdenshire Eleven had the least conception that the Surrey captain wasdeliberately throwing away his chances on that eventful day.

  Wallis and I were sitting together in the reporters' box. There wereonly four of us; two specials,--Wallis and myself,--a news-agencyreporter, and a local man.

  "Stott takes first over," remarked Wallis, sharpening his pencil andarranging his watch and score-sheet--he was very meticulous in hismethods. "They've put him to bowl against the wind. He's medium right,isn't he?"

  "Haven't the least idea," I said. "He volunteered no information;Hampdenshire have been keeping him dark."

  Wallis sneered. "Think they've got a find, eh?" he said. "We'll wait andsee what he can do against first-class batting."

  We did not have to wait long.

  As usual, Thorpe and Harrison were first wicket for Surrey, and Thorpetook the first ball.

  It bowled him. It made his wicket look as untidy as any wicket I haveever seen. The off stump was out of the ground, and the other two weremarkedly divergent.

  "Damn it, I wasn't ready for him," we heard Thorpe say in theprofessionals' room. Thorpe always had some excuse, but on this occasionit was justified.

  C. V. Punshon was the next comer, and he got his first ball through theslips for four, but Wallis looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

  "Punshon didn't know a lot about that," he said, and then he added, "Isay, what a queer delivery the chap has. He stands and shoots 'em out.It's uncanny. He's a kind of human catapult." He made a note of thephrase on his pad.

  Punshon succeeded in hitting the next ball, also, but it simply ran uphis bat into the hands of short slip.

  "Well, that's a sitter, if you like," said Wallis. "What's the matterwith 'em?"

  I was beginning to grow enthusiastic.

  "Look here, Wallis," I said, "this chap's going to break records."

  Wallis was still doubtful.

  He was convinced before the innings was over.

  There must be many who remember the startling poster that heralded theearly editions of the evening papers:

  SURREY

  ALL OUT

  FOR 13 RUNS.

  For once sub-editors did not hesitate to give the score on the contentsbill. That was a proclamation which would sell. Inside, the headlineswere rich and varied. I have an old paper by me, yellow now, andbrittle, that may serve as a type for the rest. The headlines are asfollows:--
>
  SURREY AND HAMPDENSHIRE.

  EXTRAORDINARY BOWLING PERFORMANCE.

  DOUBLE HAT-TRICK.

  SURREY ALL OUT IN 35 MINUTES FOR 13 RUNS.

  STOTT TAKES 10 WICKETS FOR 5.

  The "double hat-trick" was six consecutive wickets, the last six, allclean bowled.

  "Good God!" Wallis said, when the last wicket fell, and he looked at mewith something like fear in his eyes. "This man will have to be barred;it means the end of cricket."

  VI

  Stott's accident came during the high flood of Hampdenshire success. Fortwo years they held undisputed place as champion county, a place whichcould not be upset by the most ingenious methods of calculating points.They three times defeated Australia, and played four men in the testmatches. As a team they were capable of beating any Eleven opposed tothem. Not even the newspaper critics denied that.

  The accident appeared insignificant at the time. The match was againstNotts on the Trent Bridge ground. I was reporting for three papers;Wallis was not there.

  Stott had been taken off. Notts were a poor lot that year and I thinkFindlater did not wish to make their defeat appear too ignominious.Flower was bowling; it was a fast, true wicket, and Stott, who was asafe field, was at cover-point.

  G. L. Mallinson was batting and making good use of his opportunity; hewas, it will be remembered, a magnificent though erratic hitter. Flowerbowled him a short-pitched, fast ball, rather wide of the off-stump.Many men might have left it alone, for the ball was rising, and theslips were crowded, but Mallinson timed the ball splendidly, and droveit with all his force. He could not keep it on the ground, however, andStott had a possible chance. He leaped for it and just touched the ballwith his right hand. The ball jumped the ring at its first bound, andMallinson never even attempted to run. There was a big round of applausefrom the Trent Bridge crowd.

  I noticed that Stott had tied a handkerchief round his finger, but Iforgot the incident until I saw Findlater beckon to his best bowler, afew overs later. Notts had made enough runs for decency; it was time toget them out.

  I saw Stott walk up to Findlater and shake his head, and through myglasses I saw him whip the handkerchief from his finger and display hishand. Findlater frowned, said something and looked towards the pavilion,but Stott shook his head. He evidently disagreed with Findlater'sproposal. Then Mallinson came up, and the great bulk of his back hid thefaces of the other two. The crowd was beginning to grow excited at theinterruption. Every one had guessed that something was wrong. All roundthe ring men were standing up, trying to make out what was going on.

  I drew my inferences from Mallinson's face, for when he turned round andstrolled back to his wicket, he was wearing a broad smile. Through myfield glasses I could see that he was licking his lower lip with histongue. His shoulders were humped and his whole expression one of barelycontrolled glee. (I always see that picture framed in a circle; abioscopic presentation.) He could hardly refrain from dancing. Thenlittle Beale, who was Mallinson's partner, came up and spoke to him, andI saw Mallinson hug himself with delight as he explained the situation.

  When Stott unwillingly came back to the pavilion, a low murmur ran roundthe ring, like the buzz of a great crowd of disturbed blue flies. Inthat murmur I could distinctly trace the signs of mixed feelings. Nodoubt the crowd had come there to witness the performances of the newphenomenon--the abnormal of every kind has a wonderful attraction forus--but, on the other hand, the majority wanted to see their own countywin. Moreover, Mallinson was giving them a taste of his abnormal powersof hitting, and the batsman appeals to the spectacular, more than thebowler.

  I ran down hurriedly to meet Stott.

  "Only a split finger, sir," he said carelessly, in answer to myquestion; "but Mr. Findlater says I must see to it."

  I examined the finger, and it certainly did not seem to call forsurgical aid. Evidently it had been caught by the seam of the new ball;there was a fairly clean cut about half an inch long on the fleshyunderside of the second joint of the middle finger.

  "Better have it seen to," I said. "We can't afford to lose you, youknow, Stott."

  Stott gave a laugh that was more nearly a snarl. "Ain't the first timeI've 'ad a cut finger," he said scornfully.

  He had the finger bound up when I saw him again, but it had been done byan amateur. I learnt afterwards that no antiseptic had been used. Thatwas at lunch time, and Notts had made a hundred and sixty-eight for onewicket; Mallinson was not out, a hundred and three. I saw that the NottsEleven were in magnificent spirits.

  But after lunch Stott came out and took the first over. I don't knowwhat had passed between him and Findlater, but the captain had evidentlybeen over-persuaded.

  We must not blame Findlater. The cut certainly appeared trifling, it wasnot bad enough to prevent Stott from bowling, and Hampdenshire seemedpowerless on that wicket without him. It is very easy to distributeblame after the event, but most people would have done what Findlaterdid in those circumstances.

  The cut did not appear to inconvenience Stott in the least degree. Hebowled Mallinson with his second ball, and the innings was finished upin another fifty-seven minutes for the addition of thirty-eight runs.

  Hampdenshire made two hundred and thirty-seven for three wickets beforethe drawing of stumps, and that was the end of the match, for theweather changed during the night and rain prevented any further play.

  I, of course, stayed on in Nottingham to await results. I saw Stott onthe next day, Friday, and asked him about his finger. He made light ofit, but that evening Findlater told me over the bridge-table that he wasnot happy about it. He had seen the finger, and thought it showed atendency to inflammation. "I shall take him to Gregory in the morning ifit's not all right," he said. Gregory was a well-known surgeon inNottingham.

  Again one sees, now, that the visit to Gregory should not have beenpostponed, but at the time one does not take extraordinary precautionsin such a case as this. A split finger is such an everyday thing, andone is guided by the average of experience. After all, if one wereconstantly to make preparation for the abnormal; ordinary life could notgo on....

  I heard that Gregory pursed his lips over that finger when he hadlearned the name of his famous patient. "You'll have to be very carefulof this, young man," was Findlater's report of Gregory's advice. It wasnot sufficient. I often wonder now whether Gregory might not have savedthe finger. If he had performed some small operation at once, cut awaythe poison, it seems to me that the tragedy might have been averted. Iam, I admit, a mere layman in these matters, but it seems to me thatsomething might have been done.

  I left Nottingham on Saturday after lunch--the weather was hopeless--andI did not make use of the information I had for the purposes of mypaper. I was never a good journalist. But I went down to Ailesworth onMonday morning, and found that Findlater and Stott had already gone toHarley Street to see Graves, the King's surgeon.

  I followed them, and arrived at Graves's house while Stott was in theconsulting-room. I hocussed the butler and waited with the patients.Among the papers, I came upon the famous caricature of Stott in thecurrent number of _Punch_--the "Stand-and-Deliver" caricature, in whichStott is represented with an arm about ten feet long, and the batsman islooking wildly over his shoulder to square leg, bewildered, with noconception from what direction the ball is coming. Underneath is written"Stott's New Theory--the Ricochet. Real Ginger." While I was laughingover the cartoon, the butler came in and nodded to me. I followed himout of the room and met Findlater and Stott in the hall.

  Findlater was in a state of profanity. I could not get a sensible wordout of him. He was in a white heat of pure rage. The butler, who seemedas anxious as I to learn the verdict, was positively frightened.

  "Well, for God's sake tell me what Graves said," I protested.

  Findlater's answer is unprintable, and told me nothing.

  Stott, however, quite calm and self-possessed, volunteered theinformation. "Finger's got to
come off, sir," he said quietly. "Doctorsays if it ain't off to-day or to-morrer, he won't answer for my 'and."

  This was the news I had to give to England. It was a great coup from thejournalistic point of view, but I made up my three columns with a heavyheart, and the congratulations of my editor only sickened me. I had someluck, but I should never have become a good journalist.

  The operation was performed successfully that evening, and Stott'scareer was closed.

  VII

  I did not see Stott again till August, and then I had a long talk withhim on the Ailesworth County Ground, as together we watched the progressof Hampdenshire's defeat by Lancashire.

  "Oh! I can't learn him _nothing_," he broke out, as Flower was hit tothe four corners of the ground, "'alf vollies and long 'ops and then afull pitch--'e's a disgrace."

  "They've knocked him off his length," I protested. "On a wicket likethis ..."

  Stott shook his head. "I've been trying to learn 'im," he said, "but hecan't never learn. 'E's got 'abits what you can't break 'im of."

  "I suppose it _is_ difficult," I said vaguely.

  "Same with me," went on Stott, "I've been trying to learn myself to bowlwithout my finger"--he held up his mutilated hand--"or left-'anded; butI can't. If I'd started that way ... No! I'm always feeling for thatfinger as is gone. A second-class bowler I might be in time, not betternor that."

  "It's early days yet," I ventured, intending encouragement, but Stottfrowned and shook his head.

  "I'm not going to kid myself," he said, "I know. But I'm going to find ayoungster and learn 'im. On'y he must be young.

  "No 'abits, you know," he explained.

  The next time I met Stott was in November. I ran up against him,literally, one Friday afternoon in Ailesworth.

  When he recognised me he asked me if I would care to walk out toStoke-Underhill with him. "I've took a cottage there," he explained,"I'm to be married in a fortnight's time."

  His circumstances certainly warranted such a venture. The proceeds ofmatinee and benefit, invested for him by the Committee of the CountyClub, produced an income of nearly two pounds a week, and in addition tothis he had his salary as groundsman. I tendered my congratulations.

  "Oh! well, as to that, better wait a bit," said Stott.

  He walked with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. Hehad the air of a man brooding over some project.

  "It _is_ a lottery, of course ..." I began, but he interrupted me.

  "Oh that!" he said, and kicked a stone into the ditch; "take my chancesof that. It's the kid I'm thinking on."

  "The kid?" I repeated, doubtful whether he spoke of his fiancee, orwhether his nuptials pointed an act of reparation.

  "What, else 'ud I tie myself up for?" asked Stott. "I must 'ave a kid ofmy own and learn 'im from his cradle. It's come to that."

  "Oh! I understand," I said; "teach him to bowl."

  "Ah!" replied Stott as an affirmative. "Learn 'im from his cradle;before 'e's got 'abits. When I started I'd never bowled a ball in mylife, and by good luck I started right. But I can't find another kidover seven years old in England as ain't never bowled a ball o' somesort and started 'abits. I've tried ..."

  "And you hope with your own boys...?" I said.

  "Not 'ope, it's a cert," said Stott. "I'll see no boy of mine touches aball afore he's fourteen, and then 'e'll learn from me; and learnright. From the first go off." He was silent for a few seconds, and thenhe broke out in a kind of ecstasy. "My Gawd, 'e'll be a bowler such as'as never been, never in this world. He'll start where I left orf.He'll ..." Words failed him, he fell back on the expletive he had used,repeating it with an awed fervour. "My Gawd!"

  I had never seen Stott in this mood before. It was a revelation to me ofthe latent potentialities of the man, the remarkable depth and qualityof his ambitions....

  VIII

  I intended to be present at Stott's wedding, but I was not in Englandwhen it took place; indeed, for the next two years and a half I wasnever in England for more than a few days at a time. I sent him awedding-present, an inkstand in the guise of a cricket ball, with apen-rack that was built of little silver wickets. They were stilladvertised that Christmas as "Stott inkstands."

  Two years and a half of American life broke up many of my old habits ofthought. When I first returned to London I found that the cricket newsno longer held the same interest for me, and this may account for thefact that I did not trouble for some time to look up my old friendStott.

  In July, however, affairs took me to Ailesworth, and the associations ofthe place naturally led me to wonder how Stott's marriage had turnedout, and whether the much-desired son had been born to him. When mybusiness in Ailesworth was done, I decided to walk out toStoke-Underhill.

  The road passes the County Ground, and a match was in progress, but Iwalked by without stopping. I was wool-gathering. I was not thinking ofthe man I was going to see, or I should have turned in at the CountyGround, where he would inevitably have been found. Instead, I wasthinking of the abnormal child I had seen in the train that day;uselessly speculating and wondering.

  When I reached Stoke-Underhill I found the cottage which Stott had shownme. I had by then so far recovered my wits as to know that I should notfind Stott himself there, but from the look of the cottage I judged thatit was untenanted, so I made inquiries at the post-office.

  "No; he don't live here, now, sir," said the postmistress; "he lives atPym, now, sir, and rides into Ailesworth on his bike." She was evidentlyabout to furnish me with other particulars, but I did not care to hearthem. I was moody and distrait. I was wondering why I should bother myhead about so insignificant a person as this Stott.

  "You'll be sure to find Mr. Stott at the cricket ground," thepostmistress called after me.

  Another two months of English life induced a return to my old habits ofthought. I found myself reverting to old tastes and interests. Thereversion was a pleasant one. In the States I had been forced out of mygroove, compelled to work, to strive, to think desperately if I wouldmaintain any standing among my contemporaries. But when the perpetualstimulus was removed, I soon fell back to the less strenuous methods ofmy own country. I had time, once more, for the calm reflection that isso unlike the urgent, forced, inventive thought of the Americanjournalist. I was braced by that thirty months' experience, perhapshardened a little, but by September my American life was fading into thebackground; I had begun to take an interest in cricket again.

  With the revival of my old interests, revived also my curiosity as toGinger Stott, and one Sunday in late September I decided to go down toPym.

  It was a perfect day, and I thoroughly enjoyed my four-mile walk fromGreat Hittenden Station.

  Pym is a tiny hamlet made up of three farms and a dozen scatteredcottages. Perched on one of the highest summits of the Hampden Hills andlost in the thick cover of beech woods, without a post-office or ashop, Pym is the most perfectly isolated village within a reasonabledistance of London. As I sauntered up the mile-long lane that climbs thesteep hill, and is the only connection between Pym and anythingapproaching a decent road, I thought that this was the place to which Ishould like to retire for a year, in order to write the book I had sooften contemplated, and never found time to begin. This, I reflected,was a place of peace, of freedom from all distraction, the place forcalm, contemplative meditation.

  I met no one in the lane, and there was no sign of life when I reachedwhat I must call the village, though the word conveys a wrong idea, forthere is no street, merely a cottage here and there, dropped haphazard,and situated without regard to its aspect. These cottages lie all onone's left hand; to the right a stretch of grass soon merges intobracken and bush, and then the beech woods enclose both, and surge downinto the valley and rise up again beyond, a great wave of green; as Isaw it then, not yet touched with the first flame of autumn.

  I inquired at the first cottage and received my direction to Stott'sdwelling. It lay up a little lane, the further of two cottages joinedtoge
ther.

  The door stood open, and after a moment's hesitation and a light knock,I peered in.

  Sitting in a rocking-chair was a woman with black, untidy eyebrows, andon her knee, held with rigid attention, was the remarkable baby I hadseen in the train two months before. As I stood, doubtful and, I willconfess it, intimidated, suddenly cold and nervous, the child opened hiseyes and honoured me with a cold stare. Then he nodded, a reflective,recognisable nod.

  "'E remembers seein' you in the train, sir," said the woman, "'e neverforgets any one. Did you want to see my 'usband? 'E's upstairs."

  So _this_ was the boy who was designed by Stott to become the greatestbowler the world had ever seen....

  FOOTNOTES:

  [1] A relatively easy task for the baseball thrower, but one verydifficult of accomplishment for the English bowler, who is not permittedby the laws of cricket to bend his elbow in delivering the ball.