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Louis Davidson

Practical Graph Structures in SQL

Server and Azure SQL
Enabling Deeper Insights Using Highly Connected
Data
Louis Davidson
Cleveland, TN, USA

ISBN 978-1-4842-9458-1 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-9459-8

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-9459-8

© Louis Davidson 2023

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively
licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is
concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of
illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in
any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or
dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed.

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress

Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
To Val, what a life we have had so far… here’s to more of it.
Preface
I started working on my first book 23 years ago. It was on relational
database design. I had learned a little about graphs at that point from a
class I took by Dr. David Rozenshtein (his 1997 book The Essence of SQL
: A Guide to Learning Most of SQL in the Least Amount of Time was
essential). His class was very influential and taught me a lot about how
to think about SQL problems. This was a really long time ago (clearly),
but in that same class, one of the sections was on trees in SQL Server. I
was hooked on the subject.
In my 2012 edition of my database design book, I started to include
hierarchies as one of the topics. In my latest book, that came out after
SQL Server 2019 arrived, I promised a book of SQL Graph. This book in
your hands is the answer to that challenge.
This is my first programming-based book in many years. Usually I
am more interested in helping you shape a design, but in this case, I
want to show you the mechanics of building a graph database solution
using SQL Server and leave it more to you to decide what to do with it
from there. Part of this is due to the newness and relative complexity of
the topic, but also because graphs are meant to be very flexible
structures…way more flexible than the standard relational databases.
The chapters of the book are as follows:
Chapter 1: What a graph is and ways graphs can be used. I touch on
some of the underpinnings of what makes a graph a graph and a taste
of the theory that mathematicians use to describe and work with
graph data structures.
Chapter 2: How graphs are implemented and the algorithms that are
used to process them. While the basic structure of the graph is really
simple, there is some value to understanding how graph structures
are built in coding and having some idea of what you will see in the
rest of the book.
Chapter 3: The syntax that Microsoft has implemented for use with
graph data stored in SQL Server tables is similar to what you
probably already know from working with relational tables, but it is
so much more. In this chapter, I teach you how to use the syntax
provided by Microsoft to query graph tables in interesting ways.
 Chapter 4: Whereas in Chapter 3 I showed basic query techniques, in
this chapter I show methods that can help you load and protect the
integrity of the data in your SQL Graph tables.
Chapter 5: A tree structure built using SQL Graph objects, including
code to load and manipulate those nodes in ways that you will need
when building production systems. In this chapter, you explore the
code to create and manage a tree in SQL Server, along with an
example of how it all works.
Chapter 6: In this chapter, I dig into performance. You’ll examine a
new method of implementing a tree for comparison to the SQL Graph
objects and build some objects you can use to write queries to report
on data in your trees that operate faster. You will then build some
large, random data sets and compare how these methods perform
with certain larger sized data sets.
Chapter 7: The goal of this chapter is to build a data structure that
can show some of the concerns with working with directed graphs
that are not trees. You will build a fairly simple bill of materials data
structure to demonstrate the techniques you will need when you are
working with these structures, which are similar to trees but still
quite different.
Chapter 8: In this chapter, you will do some querying of larger data
sets in SQL Server’s graph objects. To do this, you will implement a
graph structure and data generation tools to try on large sets of data
to match your expected needs. Finally, you will explore a set of
performance tips for handling graph objects.
SQL Server’s relational engine may never be acceptable as a
complete replacement for a specific graph database system like
CosmosDB, but even in its relative infancy with just a few iterations
complete in the SQL Server lifecycle, it has become a nice way to extend
your data structures inside existing relational data structures quickly
and easily.
You can find the downloads in the book in two locations. First, on
Apress’s website you will find the original code for this book and any
errata that is reported:
https://github.com/Apress/practical-graph-
structures. Second, at
https://github.com/drsqlgithub/GraphBook1 you will find
that code plus any new code and projects I create that pertain to
learning graphs until I start working on a second edition of this book
someday.
If you have any direct questions about the content, send email to
[email protected] and I will do what I can.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub
(https://github.com/Apress). For more detailed information, please
visit www.apress.com/source-code.
Acknowledgments
My wife, for suffering through yet another long and painful book
writing process.
The Microsoft MVP Program for all the connections it has provided
me to meet wonderful, bizarrely smart people for 18 years. And my
lead, Rie Merritt, for all she has done for me through the years; amazing
how we met so many years ago. Just meeting Bob Ward and Conor
Cunningham is thrill enough, and there have been hundreds besides
them.
Shreya Verma and Arvind Shyamsundar for their help over the past
few years as I attempted to do crazy things with the graph objects on
my local personal computer.
Dr. David Rosenstein, who first got me interested in graphs in
relational structures so many years ago. Paul Nielsen for the talks we
had on graph structures.
Kathi Kellenberger for tech editing this book. I appreciate the hard
work!
All the doctors/medical professionals who kept me alive and kicking
these past few years. (If you want to know more, just ask, if you have a
while to talk. There is a reason this book took me over two years to
write.)
My coworkers at CBN whom I left during the writing of this book. I
hope the graph objects I left you with are serving you nicely.
My new coworkers at Redgate. I have been a friend of Redgate (as
well as a member of Friends of Redgate) for many years, writing for
them. My new manager and teammates have been nothing but
awesome.
Amber Davis, for giving me the chance to be a Dollywood Insider.
Obviously being a Dollywood insider has little to do with this book, but
I just wanted to say it again (which she may never see!) as I am writing
the acknowledgements in the Dollywood Dreammore lobby. I learned a
lot from her that has been useful writing some of this book and in my
new job at Redgate as Simple-Talk editor.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Introduction to Graphs
Graph Fundamentals
Definition
Summary
Chapter 2:​Data Structures and Algorithms
Basic Implementation
Acyclic Graphs
Trees
Other Acyclic Graphs
Cyclic Graphs
Non-Directed Graphs
Summary
Chapter 3:​SQL Graph Table Basics
Object Creation
Creating Data
Querying Data
Node-to-Node Querying
Traversing Variable Level Paths
Summary
Chapter 4:​SQL Graph Tables:​Extended Topics
Advanced Data Creation Techniques
Building an Interface Layer
Loading Data Using Composable JSON Tags
Heterogenous Queries
Integrity Constraints and Indexes
 Edge Constraint
Uniqueness Constraints (and Indexes)
Additional Constraints
Metadata Roundup
List Graph Objects in the Database
Types of Graph Columns
Tools for Fetching Graph Information
Summary
Chapter 5:​Tree Data Structures
Creating the Data Structures
Base Table Structures
Demo Sales Structure
Essential Tree Maintenance Code
Code To Create New Nodes
Reparenting Nodes
Deleting a Node
Tree Output Code
Returning Part of the Tree
Determining If a Child Node Exists
Aggregating Child Activity at Every Level
Summary
Chapter 6:​Tree Structures, Algorithms, and Performance
Alternative Tree Implementation
Path Technique
Helper Table
Performance Comparison
 Summary
Chapter 7:​Other Directed Acyclic Graphs
The Problem Set
The Example
Determining If a Part Is Used in a Build
Picking Items for a Build
Printing Out the Parts List for a Build
Summary
Chapter 8:​A Graph For Testing
The Example
Creating the Tables
Loading the Data
The Queries
Performance Tuning Results
Performance Tuning Roundup
Test
Index the Internal Columns
Employ a Maximum Degree of Parallelism of One
Consider Breaking Up Some Queries
The End (or Is It the Beginning?​)
Index
About the Author
Louis Davidson
has been working with databases for
more than 25 years as a corporate
database developer and architect. He is
now the editor for the Redgate Simple
Talk website. He has been a Microsoft
MVP for 18 years. In addition to this
book on graphs in SQL Server, he has
written six editions of his general-
purpose SQL Server database design
book (Apress) and has worked on
multiple other book projects over the
years.
Louis has been active in speaking about database design and
implementation at many conferences over the past 25 years, including
SQL PASS, SQL Rally, SQL Saturday events, CA World, Music City Data,
and the devLink Technical Conference. He has a bachelor’s degree in
computer science from the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. For
more information, please visit his website at drsql.org.
About the Technical Reviewer
Kathi Kellenberger
is a Customer Success Engineer at
Redgate and a Data Platform MVP. She
has worked with SQL Server since 1998
and has authored, co-authored, or tech
reviewed over 20 technical books. Kathi
is a longtime volunteer at LaunchCode in
St. Louis where she has taught T-SQL in
the LaunchCode Women + program.
When Kathi isn’t working, she enjoys
spending time with family and friends,
cycling, singing, and climbing the stairs
of tall buildings.
Other documents randomly have
different content
The ground-man was lingering over the last touches to his
masterpiece when the young person in brown holland actually set
foot on the sacred earth that the general public is not even
permitted to approach. The face of the ground-man was well worth
looking at. When the feelings of a great artist are outraged it is a
very painful sight. Alas, poor Wiggles! the agony of his countenance
no pen could depict. He lifted up his head and emitted a slow-drawn
growl. This had no effect whatever. Indeed, an instant later, this
most audacious individual had the incredible effrontery to bring
down a pretty solid brown boot, by no means of the “little mice”
type either, twice upon the pitch itself. It was more than a merely
human ground-man could endure.
“Begging pardon, miss,” said he, “but are you aware, miss, that this
here is a—a wicket?”
“Well, my dear man,” said the person thus addressed, “do you
suppose I thought it was a bunker?”
The Ancient and I agreed that this was an achievement. For a
member of the general public to retort effectually on a real live
ground-man was as great a feat as to look at the Chinese Emperor.
The face of Wiggles was a study. Meanwhile, the lady having
sufficiently tried the adamantine surface with her boot, bent down
and pressed on it with her thumb. A feather would have slain the
miserable Wiggles at that moment. Was it possible that any human
creature, let alone the sex, could presume to test, and criticise, and
doubt his masterpiece in this way! But worse was coming.
Apparently the young person in brown holland was determined to
satisfy herself in regard to every detail.
“Ground-man,” she said, “has this turf any tendency to crumble?”
“No, it ain’t,” said the ground-man savagely.
Having laid her doubts in this direction, she proceeded to view the
wicket lengthwise. Setting her alert tanned face in a precise line with
the stumps, she said:—
“Ground-man, are you sure that these sticks are quite plumb!”
“If they ain’t it’s the fust time i’ thirty yeer.”
“But surely the leg peg your end wants pulling out a bit. That’ll do.
It’s all right now.”
When the utterly demoralised Wiggles discovered that he had
unconsciously obeyed the behests of the young person in brown
holland, I never saw a man who more regretted his own inability to
kick himself.
“Well, ground-man,” she said slowly and reflectively, “I think this
wicket is good enough for a Test Match. Here’s a shilling for you.”
The hesitation of Wiggles was really painful. A shilling is a shilling
always, but how could a self-respecting ground-man accept one in
these humiliating circumstances? His views on political economy,
however, reconciled his outraged feelings to this added insult. He
took the shilling with a defiant air.
“And, ground-man,” she said, “mind that I tip you for every
individual century that is got for Hickory to-day.”
“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Wiggles, with a groan. He was Little
Clumpton to the marrow. The poor wretch cast a despairing glance
at the Ancient and myself, while we practised in the most assiduous
manner.
Suddenly a peal of laughter came from the young person in brown
holland. It seemed that the sight-board in front of a dark fringe of
trees behind the bowler’s arm had attracted her polite attention.
“Charlie’s arm’ll be over that,” she cried delightedly. “We’ll put him
on that end.”
“Ancient,” said I, “do you hear what that—that girl’s saying? Why
doesn’t that idiot Wiggles order her off the field? If she stops there
much longer we’re a beaten team.”
Just then she turned her attention to us engaged in practice. Now
the sight of this—this person who was so busily occupied in laying
traps and pitfalls for Little Clumpton’s overthrow enraged me to that
degree that I determined to get rid of her by uncompromising
methods. She stood in the exact line of my crack to cover.
“Ancient,” I said, “just chuck up a nice half-volley on the off, and I’ll
make this place a bit too hot for that young person in brown
holland.”
The Ancient lost no time in becoming accessory before the fact, and,
throwing my leg across, I put in every ounce I’d got.
“Oh, goo—od stroke! goo—od stroke!” cried our intended victim in a
very joyful voice. And we had the privilege of witnessing the young
person we were conspiring to remove calmly place her feet and
hands together, as per Steel and Lyttelton, and field and return that
red-hot drive in the neatest, cleanest, county style.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said I.
“If she’s fielding cover for them,” said the Ancient grimly,
“somebody’ll be run out. We’d better advise Lennox and Jack
Comfort not to try to steal ’em. I shan’t go for short ’uns, I can tell
you.”
The Ancient owed his eminence to the fact that no detail was too
mean for his capacious mind. Besides, he was as strenuous, serious,
and self-centred as a novelist with a circulation of a hundred
thousand copies.
Much to the relief of Wiggles and ourselves, the sight of a perfect
broad-shouldered giant of a fellow issuing from the pavilion at this
moment, clad in flannels, bat in hand, lured the young person in
brown holland from her very inconvenient and highly dangerous
station at the wicket.
“Hi, Archie, got a ball?” she cried at the pitch of a splendid pair of
lungs.
“Hullo, Grace!” replied the giant in a voice by no means the inferior
of her own. “You’re just the very chap. I want half a dozen down.
Let’s cut across there to the nets. Here you are. Look out!”
Thereon the giant hurled a ball a terrific height into the eye of the
sun. It seemed so perilously like descending on our heads that poor
Wiggles put up his hands and began to run for his life. Not so the
young person in brown holland. She stepped two or three yards
backward, moved a little to one side, shaded her eyes a moment
from the glare to sight the catch, and next instant had the leather
tucked beautifully under her chin in a manner worthy of a G. J.
Mordaunt.
“Wiggles,” said I, “do you happen to know who that lady is?”
“Wish I did, sir,” said Wiggles feebly. “She’s a terror, ain’t she? But I
hope she don’t come here too often. I reckon she’s a Trentham, she
is. That wor A. H. what just come out. Lord, and just look at that
theer gal a bowlin’ at ’un. She sets ’un back on his sticks an’ all.”
We turned our attention to the nets, and beheld her bowling slow
hanging length balls to A. H. Trentham, almost a facsimile of Alfred
Shaw.
“I tell you, Dimsdale,” said the Ancient, “if this is what lovely
woman’s coming to, it’s high time some of us crocks took to golf. I
wonder if Miss Grace plays for M.C.C. I notice she’s got their colours
on. I’ve always contended that they never look so well as when worn
by W. G., but I’m hanged if this new Grace don’t give the Old Man
points.”
 CHAPTER IV
An Impossible Incident
THE great men were now coming out in twos and threes to have a
knock.
“Hullo!” said I, “that’s Elphinstone. Remember him at ‘the House.’
There’s not much of him, but what there is is all-sufficing. And just
look at those great big bounding Trenthams. Anyone of ’em could
put the little parson in his pocket. And I say, Ancient, do you notice
that the young one, about the build of Townsend—I mean the one
clapping his hands for the ball—do you notice that he’s an enlarged
copy of the young person in brown holland? Same hair, and eyes,
and nose, and everything; same cheerful enterprising look. It’s a
million to a hay-seed she’s a Trentham, too.”
But the Optimist approached, an encyclopædia of the scientific and
the useful.
“Brightside,” said the Ancient, “we want to know who that girl is
who’s sticking up A. H. like Alfred Shaw.”
“Better go and ask Lawson,” said the Optimist. “I’ve just suggested
that he puts a placard up in the refreshment tent to the effect that
the singularly interesting being in brown holland is Miss Laura Mary
Trentham, yet another member of the world-famous cricket family of
that name. Lawson’s being simply besieged with questions.”
“But A. H. called her Grace just now?”
“Her baptismal name is Laura Mary, but they call her Grace because
she keeps five portraits of that hero on her bedroom mantelpiece.
Rumour also says that she keeps strands of his beard stowed away
in secret drawers. This she indignantly denies, however, as she
swears that if she’d got them she’d wear them in a brooch.”
“H’m! And what an extraordinary resemblance there is between her
and T. S. M.”
“They’re twins. She’s about an hour the older of the two, and I
believe she bullies him outrageously. And I rather think she gives her
honourable and reverend papa, and the remainder of the family, a
pretty lively time. Why, here’s the old gentleman himself.”
The Captain and the Humourist were accompanying a fine old
clergyman in an inspection of the wicket. He was gigantically built.
His perfectly white hair lent him a venerable expression that was
hardly borne out by his massive shoulders and athletic figure, for
they had not the faintest suspicion of age.
“By Jove!” said the Optimist in enthusiastic tones, “that old boy’s
been a player in his day. In the fifties he practically beat the Players
single-handed more than once. In fact, the old buffers say at Lord’s
that for three years he was the best amateur bowler that there’s
ever been. Of course wickets have altered since his time, but up at
Lord’s they swear that Spofforth at his best was never in it with ‘the
Reverent.’”
“’Don’t wonder then,” said I, “that this Clerk in Holy Orders has got
such a devil of a family. Look out, mind your heads!”
Captain George, of the Artillery, had chosen that moment to open his
shoulders to the youthful T. S. M. with the result that a lovely
skimming drive dropped twenty yards in front of the pavilion and
bounced with a rattle on to the corrugated iron roof. We had barely
time to observe this when a buzz of amazement went round the
crowded ring. It seemed that at last A. H., of Middlesex, had “had a
go” at one of the insidious deliveries of Miss Grace, his sister, with
the result that he lifted her from the far net clean over the ladies’
tent.
“Yes,” said the Ancient, “they appear to be a thoroughly amiable,
courteous, carefully brought-up, gentle-mannered family. There they
go. It’s H. C.’s turn now. He’s very nearly killed a little boy. They
seem to bowl like hell, and hit like kicking horses!”
This brought misfortune to us in hard reality. The General Nuisance
strolled up with his permanent simper.
“Oldknow,” said he, “unwillingly I heard the profane utterance of
your pagan mind. It is grievous for a man of your parts and
understanding to give way to language of that character. But you will
be glad to hear that our esteemed Secretary, Lawson, is suffering at
this moment from an attack of incipient paralysis. It appears that
that blackguard of a Billy is confined to bed.”
“The brute!”
“The beast!”
“The pig!”
“What I we are actually left to face a team like this with one
bowler?” said I, the first to recover from the shock.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said the General Nuisance, with his
geniality rising almost to the point of hysteria. “We aren’t even left
with one. As a matter of fact we haven’t a bowler of any sort. It’s
true that we’ve any amount of the usual small change. I can bowl
three long hops and two full tosses in an over, so can you; so can all
of us; and that, dear friends, is what we’ve got to do.”
“But you are forgetting Charlie,” said the Optimist of the lion heart.
“Oh dear, no,” said the General Nuisance, “’wouldn’t forget him for
the world. If you would only wait and let me break the news with my
usual delicacy. Charlie’s just wired to say that his mother-in-law has
been taken seriously ill, and that he and Mrs. Charlie have been
obliged to go to town.”
Straightway the Ancient wheeled about, and fled—fled with a curse
into the recesses of the pavilion, far from the madding crowd, the
pitiless sun, the perfect wicket, and those dreadful men from Hickory
loosening their arms.
“Tha-ank you! Tha-ank you!” called the bowler, as a pretty little leg
hit from J. P. Carteret struck the inoffensive Optimist between the
shoulder-blades.
“Comfort,” said I, addressing myself to the General Nuisance, “if
there had been the least sense of propriety in that rotten played-out
thing called Providence, that ball had hit you on the head.”
“Dear friends,” said the General Nuisance, “don’t you think that
Charlie’s mother-in-law well maintains the traditions of her tribe?”
“The abandoned old woman!” cried I.
“Never mind, I think it’s our turn to win the toss,” said the Optimist,
unconquered still.
They ought to grant the Victoria Cross to men of this heroic mould,
who remain wholly invincible to circumstance. Some credit was due
to me as well, for I had the presence of mind to behave as custom,
nay, etiquette, demands, when things are going wrong. I broke out
into loud and prolonged abuse of the harmless necessary Secretary.
“Lawson is an utter and consummate ass!” said I. “A man with the
intelligence of an owl would surely know that his bowlers were
bound to let him down at the eleventh hour. They always do. They
always consult their own book before they think about their side. I
shall suggest at the next meeting of committee that Lawson be
asked to resign. Nature never designed a fool to be a secretary;
besides, one looks for foresight in a secretary. Here he’s actually not
made the least provision for a case of this sort, which a man with
the penetration of the common hedgehog would have anticipated at
the beginning of the season. And, Comfort, what’s he doing now?
Surely he knows that Middlesex aren’t playing, and of course he’s
had the sense to wire for Hearne and Albert Trott.”
“No, I believe not,” drawled the General Nuisance; “but we must give
credit, my dear Dimsdale, where credit’s due, for even that
submerged Secretary of ours has, impossible as it may appear, gone
one better than even your intelligence suggests. He’s just cabled to
Australia for Jones and Trumble. They’re not so well known to the
Hickory cracks as Jack Hearne and Trott; besides, they’ve been
resting all the winter, don’t you know.”
Here the pavilion bell pealed lustily as a signal for the ground to
clear immediately, it being now within a few minutes of eleven
o’clock. It was a real relief that our conversation with the General
Nuisance had at length been interrupted, since I for one could feel a
quantity of awful consequences fairly itching in my finger-tips. If
nature had not a habit of going out of its way to encourage original
sin in all its phases, the General Nuisance must have died with a jerk
at a comparatively early period of his development.
The summons was promptly obeyed. The players came trooping in
from the remote corners of the playing-piece; and it was observed
that while Hickory walked confident, lusty, and obtrusively cheerful,
Little Clumpton were in that state of nerves when strong men pluck
at their moustaches and their ties. When we entered the dressing-
room we found the Captain and the Secretary conferring together in
tragic whispers. This in itself was sufficient to strike a chill into the
boldest heart; and we stood apart out of pure respect and
appreciation for the solemn sight. Presently the Captain rose, and a
shudder went through us all, for we saw by his intense expression
that he was going out to toss. And we remembered that the Captain
was the unluckiest man in England with the spin; that he had won
the toss against Hickory last year; that our so-called bowling was
absolutely unworthy of the name; that the wicket was perfection;
and that the finest batting side that had ever appeared for Hickory
was drinking stone-ginger beer and cracking rude jokes in their
dressing-room across the way.
Alas, no jokes and ginger beer for Little Clumpton! Even the
Humourist forbore to make a pun; the Optimist was silent as the
tomb; and two large-hearted persons sat on the face of the General
Nuisance, partly in the public interest, and partly that manslaughter
might be averted for a time. When the Captain, pale but stern, went
forth to toss, the Worry tottered from his seat and softly closed the
door. We had no desire for publicity. As for the preliminaries and
suspense of the sacred rite itself, in that direction madness lay. The
Pessimist alone dared to interrupt the holy peace that pervaded this
dull and miserable dressing-room; but he was a man without any of
life’s little delicacies, and utterly devoid of the higher instincts and
the finer feelings.
“I say, you men,” said he, “we might be a set of Hooligans riding to
the assizes in Black Maria to make the acquaintance of Mr. Justice
Day. Why doesn’t somebody smile? Suppose you try, Brightside, as
you’re always such a jolly cheerful sort o’ Johnny.”
“Shut up,” said the Secretary, “if you desire to avoid what’s
happened to that blasted Comfort!”
This pointed reference appeared to touch the General Nuisance in
his amour propre, for after a violent struggle he was able to
sufficiently disengage his mouth from the vertebral columns of his
guardians to painfully suggest:—
“S’pose I give—compliments—club—to—Grace Trentham and ask her
to come and—bowl a bit—for Lil Clumpton. She can—give such—a
long start—to—the refuse we’ve——”
Here, however, his custodians, by half garrotting him, and the
judicious application of Merryweather’s “barn door,” were able to get
their refractory charge in hand again.
And now the door opened softly, and the Captain stalked in, saying
nothing. The fell deed was accomplished. Yet who was going in, not
one of us knew, and not one of us had the courage to inquire. Those
inscrutable eyes and that high expansive brow were as impassive as
the Sphinx. Not a muscle twitched, not a line relented in the
Captain’s face, and not a man of us dared frame the ingenuously
simple question:—
“Halliday, have you won the toss?”
We noted the Captain’s smallest movements now with wild-eyed
anxiety. We saw him wash his hands, we saw him part his hair, and
when he said: “Chuck me that towel, Lennox,” in sepulchral tones,
his voice startled us like an eighty-one ton gun. Then he proceeded
to divest himself of his blazer. “We are fielding!” flashed through our
inner consciousness; but—but he might be going in first. He rolled
his sleeves up with horrible deliberation. Oh, why had not that
wretched Lawson, miserable Secretary as he was, the pluck to say:
“Halliday, have you won the toss?” Surely it was the Secretary’s
place to do this, else what was the good of having a Secretary if he
couldn’t ask the Captain who was going in, and simple things of that
sort?
The Captain hung his blazer up reflectively on one of the pegs of his
locker; he foraged in his cricket bag; he drew forth a pair of pads.
“He’s taking wicket!” was the thought that made our flesh creep,
since he had been known to undertake these thankless duties on
very great occasions. But—but he might be going in first. And at
least he might have had the common humanity to put us out of our
misery. He had buckled on one pad, and was carefully folding his
trousers round his ankle prior to adjusting the second, when he
looked up sadly and addressed me familiarly by name.
“Dimsdale,” he said slowly and meekly, “have you any very rooted
disinclination to going in first with me?”
The Secretary jumped up and literally fell upon the Captain’s neck.
The General Nuisance was immediately released. The Optimist and
the Pessimist were as brothers, identified in joy. The Worry amused
himself in a quiet way by turning cart-wheels across the floor.
Indeed, it was a moment when life was very good.
Now the honour was so stupendous that had been conferred upon
me, that it was more than a young and ambitious man with his
name to make could realize at first. It was beyond my most highly-
tinted dreams that I should be singled out to go in first with the
Captain in my first Little Clumpton v. Hickory. Why should I, of all the
talented men our team possessed, be chosen for this distinction?
Was there not the Humourist, with his dauntless “never-saw-such-
bowling-in-my-life air”; the Pessimist, who had played for the county
twice this season; the Ancient, with all the weight of his
accumulated wisdom, his guile, and his experience; the Worry, who
if allowed to stay ten minutes, neither men nor angels could remove;
the General Nuisance, too, who must have been an almost
superhuman bat to be allowed to play at all? It was a moment of my
life when I said with all becoming modesty: “Thanks, old chap,” and
proceeded to put on my pads with hands that trembled.
“First wicket, Ancient,” said the Captain, writing down the order. It
was wonderful how merry the room had suddenly become: the buzz
of tongues, the whistling of the music of the music hall, the
Humourist working at his pun, the General Nuisance veiling his
satisfaction in gin and ginger beer, all testified that cricket was a
noble sport, and that life was really excellent.
“I say, you men,” said the Captain, “remember that our game’s to
keep in. No risks, mind; no hurry for runs, you know. We haven’t got
a bit of bowling, and somebody’s told ’em so.”
I was in the act of testing the handle of my bat, when I recollected
with a pang that I was minus my Authentics. What should I do?
William had not appeared with its substitute, yet in a couple of
minutes I should be going in to bat on perhaps the biggest occasion
of my career. Heaven knew I was horribly nervous as it was, so
nervous, that when I thought of marching out to that wicket, before
that crowd, to face that bowling, I began to desire a gentle death
and a quiet funeral. It was now five minutes past eleven, and still
that confounded William had not come! What should I do? The more
I thought of the Magdalen, the Winchester, and the M.C.C., the more
impossible they became.
“Ready?” said the Captain.
“Ye—es,” said I; “q—quite ready.”
“Hickory aren’t out yet,” said the kind-hearted Optimist, looking
through the window.
“’Wonder why they don’t hurry,” said the General Nuisance; “I can
see that Dimsdale’s positively trembling to get at ’em. Besides, the
umpires have been out quite five minutes.”
“They’re funking us,” said the Humourist.
Ah, these humourists, what lion hearts they’ve got!
“Perhaps they are being photographed,” some enlightened mind
suggested.
The Worry opened the door, although I vainly assured him that there
really was no hurry, to have a look at what Hickory were up to.
“Why,” said he breathlessly, “they’re playing two wicket-keepers.”
Sure enough, two men with pads on stood conversing in the
doorway of their dressing-room, and looking across at us.
“’Never heard of such a thing before,” said the Secretary, with a
puzzled air, “as a side having two wicket-keepers. H.C. must be a
blooming hurricane. But I’m not quite sure whether this is altogether
legal. Who’s got a copy of the rules?”
“Why, what are you fellows up to?” demanded Captain George from
the other side, gazing earnestly at Halliday’s pads and mine.
“The very thing I want to ask you,” said Halliday.
“We’re waiting for you to take the field,” said Trentham; “the
umpires have been out some time.”
“We are quite ready when you are,” said Halliday.
“We’ve been ready the last five minutes.”
“Then why don’t you go out?”
“How can we go out until you are in the field?”
The position of Halliday’s jaw announced that he was completely at
a loss.
“Anyway,” said he, “what are Elphinstone and Archie doing with their
pads on?”
“We want to know why you two have got yours on?”
“I told you we should go in,” said our Captain.
“But I said that we should,” said theirs.
“But I thought you were joking.”
“And I thought you were.”
“But I won the toss.”
“Pardon me, Halliday, but I won the toss.”
“Pardon me, Trentham, but you are quite wrong.”
“My dear Halliday, this is absurd!”
“Well, who called?”
“Hanged if I know; but I know I won the toss. But who did call?”
“I don’t know; but I’m certain that I won the toss.”
A howl of laughter broke from the light-minded persons in the other
room. But on our part we preserved a very religious gravity, I can
assure you. The dismay that had seized the whole team was terrible
to contemplate.
“Well, who saw us toss?” said their Captain confidently.
“Yes; who saw us toss?” said ours, with an equally full-toned
conviction.
Yet, unhappily or happily, sure I know not which, neither side could
produce a single witness.[C]
What was to be done? The crowd was growing highly impatient, and
cries of “Play up!” assailed us as we stood and argued.
“I don’t think there’s anything in the rules that provides for both
sides going in to bat,” drawled the General Nuisance; “therefore,
suppose we send in a man, you send in a man; you have a bowler
on at one end, we have one on at the other, and all field? That
practically obviates the difficulty, doesn’t it? And it’ll be ever so much
nicer for everybody.”
Though this solution was hailed by us as the height of ingenuity, and
“nice” to the last degree, singularly enough Hickory were blind to its
beauties. Therefore when our Captain said, “We’d better toss again,
hadn’t we?” it struck George Trentham that this was a rather good
idea.
This time, that there might be no mistake, both sides crowded round
their irresponsible skippers. Hickory had a tendency to view the
thing as the finest joke they’d ever heard, but Little Clumpton to a
man wore a funereal gravity. Trentham produced a coin, and sent it
spinning to the ceiling.
“Tails!” cried our Captain.
The coin dropped on the wooden boards of the pavilion, and
proceeded to run round on its edges, as though enjoying the
proceedings thoroughly, whilst several enterprising men ran round
after it.
“Tails it is!” said Lawson, who always arrived just a short head
before everybody else.
“Then I think,” said our Captain, with a most statesmanlike
deliberation, “all things considered, we shall be justified in going in.”
A minute later Hickory streamed into the field, and were greeted
with great cheering. And as they issued forth the breathless William
appeared with Thornhill’s cap, just in the nick of time.
 CHAPTER V
The Cussedness of Cricket
HAD I been in less of a tottering funk, I might have taken the
admirably timed arrival of the Authentics as an omen of good luck.
But I was in that suicidal frame of mind when a man wishes that he
is anything but what he is, anywhere but where he is, and that he
has to do aught but what he has to do. It is a frame of mind that
can give for deep-seated torture a long start to nightmares,
weddings, sea-sickness, and public speaking. If I were only going in
first wicket, I shouldn’t care! If I’d only an inkling of what the
bowling was like! If only it wasn’t Little Clumpton v. Hickory! If only
the crowd wasn’t so beastly big and demonstrative! If only it wasn’t
such a glaring hot day! If only this abject cap was not two sizes too
small! If it was only my own, and it didn’t look and feel so supremely
ridiculous! If I could only cut away to a prompt and very private
death! Cricket is quite a gentle, harmless game, but he is a lucky
man who has not to sweat some blood before he’s done with it.
“Ready, Dimsdale?” said the Captain.
I followed him sickly, fumbling at my batting-glove with nervous
fingers.
“Wish you luck, old man,” said some person of benevolent
disposition, as I issued forth. It is never exactly kind, however, to
wish luck to the keenly sensitive, as it leads them to think that they’ll
certainly need luck, and plenty of it, if they’re going to stay long.
From the Artistic Standpoint (capital letters, please, Mr. Printer!), it is
a thousand pities that I cannot say that when I stepped from the
pavilion on this great occasion to open the innings with my Captain,
a man whose name had penetrated to the remotest corners of the
cricket world, I held my head up with an air of conscious power. Why
was I not, as the Hero of this story, prepared to do the thing in style,
in the manner of the most accepted writers? Of course I ought to
have marched to the wicket, my heart big with courage, calm in the
knowledge that the Hero never does get less than fifty. I ought to
have been ready to chastise Villainy in the person of the Demon
Bowler, by hitting his length balls for six on the slightest provocation.
I am sure that no less than this is expected of me by every right-
minded reader. Nor am I blind by any means to my obligations; yet
somehow it is so much easier to get runs with the pen than with the
bat. At least I have always found it so!
I daresay that, except for being a trifle pale, I looked quite happy to
all but the trained observer. I don’t suppose that ten persons of the
shouting thousands present had the faintest notion that the trim-
built chap of medium height who walked in with H. J. Halliday, his
bat tucked beneath his arm, as he fastened on his glove, had limbs
of paper and a heart of fear. There was nought to indicate that there
was a dreadful buzzing in his ears, a black mist before his eyes, that
his knee-joints were threatening to let him down at every step, and
that he was praying to be bowled first ball, to be put out of his
misery at once.
When you go in to bat, it is not that you dread aught special and
particular. You would cheerfully endure anything rather than your
present ordeals. You are not afraid of getting a “duck.” On the
contrary, you’ll be almost happy if you get one. It is the mere
sensation of an impending something, you know not what, that
plays skittles with your impressionable nature.
“’Mind taking first ball, Halliday?” I said hoarsely.
“If you like,” said he; then added, “Just play your usual, and you’re
bound to get ’em.”
True cricketers are the soul of kindness.
Carefully noting at which end the wicket-keeper was, I just as
carefully went to the one at which he was not. The mighty H. C.
Trentham was loosening his arm, and sending down a few
preliminaries. I watched him as keenly as the black mists before my
eyes allowed. He brought his long brown arm right over with a
beautiful, easy, automatic swing. The ball slipped from his fingers at
an ordinary pace, but as soon as it took the ground it spun off the
pitch with an inward twist at three times the rate one would expect.
He looked every inch a bowler, powerfully built in every part, his
body supple as a cat’s, a remarkable length of limb, and, better still,
a pair of extremely strong and heavy-timbered legs.
However, the man preparing to resist him looked every inch a
batsman, too. Lithe, alert, calm, he seemed quietly happy that he
had got to face a bowler worthy of his artifice. The manner in which
he asked for his guard, and took it, the elaborate process he went
through to ensure the maintenance of “two leg,” the diligent way in
which he observed the placing of the field, and the freedom with
which he ordered the screen about, all pointed to the conclusion that
if Hickory got him out for under fifty on that wicket, they would be
able to congratulate themselves. There is as much difference
between the first-class cricketer and the ordinary club-man as there
is between a professional actor and the gifted amateur. The club-
man may be a marvel of conscientiousness, discretion, and
enthusiasm, and able to recite Steel and Lyttelton from the preface
to the index at a moment’s notice, but he has not that air of
inevitableness that emphasizes the county man scoring off the best
of Briggs and Richardson, and apparently able to compass any feat
in the batting line but the losing of his wicket.
The terrific H. C. Trentham was now ready to deal destruction.
Anxiously had I observed the placing of the field, the most
noticeable items of which were the wicket-keeper standing a dozen
yards behind the sticks, and the four men in the slips still deeper,
with their hands on their thighs, and their noses on a level with the
bails. The bowler measured his distance, and scratched up the turf
at his starting-point. The batsman set himself. The bowler walked a
couple of yards, then broke into a trot, that gradually grew into a
run, and when he arrived at the crease, with the velocity of a
locomotive he hurled the ball from his hand, and his body after it,
almost faster than the eye could follow. The Captain fairly dug his
bat into his block-hole, and the ball came back straight down the
pitch, whizzing and rotating in half-circles. It was a most determined
and barefaced attempt to “york” the captain, and the bowler smiled
all over his countenance in a very winning manner. The Captain set
himself again. The next ball was of perfect length, a few inches on
the off, and turned in suddenly, with the ungenerous idea of hitting
the top of the off stump; but the Captain, watching it all the way,
met it very warily, his right leg well against his bat, and blocked it
gently back again to the bowler. The third had a very similar design,
but happening to be pitched a little farther up, it came back as
though propelled from a gun. The bowler neatly picked it up one
hand, and drew the first cheer from the crowd. The fourth was full
of guile. It was a trifle on the short side, wide of the off stump, and
instead of turning in, was going away with the bowler’s arm. The
Captain drew himself erect, held up his bat, and never made the
least attempt to play it. The bowler smiled more winningly than ever.
A London critic unburdened his mind by shouting “Nottingham!” The
fifth was wickedness itself. The bowler covered his fifteen yards of
run with exactly the same action and velocity, hurled down the ball
with the same frantic effort of arms and body, but, behold, the ball
was as slow as possible, and the eye could distinctly follow it as it
spun in the air with a palpable leg-bias. Even the great batsman who
had to receive it was at fault. He played a little bit too soon, but,
happily for Little Clumpton, the ground was so hard and true that it
refused to take the full amount of work, and instead of its curling in
and taking the Captain’s middle, as the bowler had intended, it
refused to come in farther than the leg stick, which was
conscientiously covered by the Captain’s pad. There it hit him, and
rolled slowly towards the umpire, whilst the wicket-keeper pelted
grotesquely after it.
“Come on!” I cried, seizing the opportunity, for I was very, very
anxious for the Captain to take first over from the other end.
Accordingly, we scuttled down the pitch, and I got home just as the
wicket-keeper threw down my citadel.
“Well bowled, Charlie!” said the Captain. But I think there was more
in this than may appear, as I believe the thoughtful Captain wished
to attract my careful attention to that particular ball. Meantime the
bowler had been grinning so violently at his own exceeding subtlety
that mid-off politely requested him not to commit such an outrage
on the handiwork of nature.
“Tom, you have a try that end,” said Captain George, throwing the
ball to T. S. M. “Set the field where you want ’em.”
“Left-hand round the wicket!” the umpire announced to the
batsman; “covers ’em both, sir.”
It was plain, by the irregular arrangement of the field, which had
three men out, that T. S. M. was slow.
“You don’t want a third man; send him out into the country, and
bring point round a bit!”
Now as these commands were issued most distinctly from the top of
the coach, and as Miss Grace Trentham was at that moment the sole
occupant of the same, she must be held responsible for them. A
wide smile flickered in the face of every fielder, including that of the
happy-go-lucky Hickory captain. But let it be observed, in passing,
that there are captains to whom this advice, however Pallas-like,
would not appear “good form.” It was evident that Miss Grace knew
her man.
“By Jove! she’s right,” said the good-humoured soldier; “get round,
Jimmy.”
“She always is,” said the Harrow captain, her youngest brother; “and
I wish she wasn’t. She knows a jolly sight too much.”
“Why don’t she qualify for Kent,” said J. P. Carteret, as he waddled
off to deep square-leg.
The Harrow boy began with a singular sort of movement that must
have had a resemblance to the war-dance of the cheerful Sioux, or
the festive Shoshanee, which developed into a corkscrew kind of
action that was very puzzling to watch, and imparted to the ball a
peculiar and deceptive flight. He was quite slow, with a certain
amount of spin and curl. The Captain played right back to him every
time, and, like the old Parliamentary hand he was, there was very
little of his wicket to be seen, as his legs did their best to efface it.
The Captain had come in with the determination to take no liberties.
He meant to play himself thoroughly well in before turning his
attention to the secondary matter of making runs. If T. S. M. had
been a Peate, his first over could not have been treated with a more
flattering respect. The consequence was that he opened with a
maiden also.
My turn had now arrived. I was called on to face the finest amateur
bowler in England. Judging by the one over of his that I had had the
privilege of witnessing, he appeared to combine the pace of a
Kortright with the wiles of a Spofforth. Taking him altogether, he did
not seem to be the nicest bowler in the world for a man of small
experience and ordinary ability to oppose. But I remembered
vaguely that the wicket was perfection, and that a straight bat would
take a lot of beating. Besides, the black mists had lifted somewhat
from my eyes, and the beastly funk had considerably decreased, as
it often does when one is actually at work. All the same, I took my
guard without knowing exactly what I did; I observed the field
without knowing precisely how it was arranged, yet could see
enough of it to be aware that point was looking particularly grim,
and half inclined to chuckle, as though saying to himself, “Oh, he’s a
young ’un, is he?”
It was perhaps the sardonic countenance of point that stirred the old
Adam in me, for suddenly I took heart of grace, recollected the
Captain’s “Play your usual, and you’re bound to get ’em,” and made
up my mind to play out at H. C. Trentham as though my life
depended on it. All the same, I could have wished that the cap I
wore was my own, and not two sizes smaller than it should be, and
that I could divest my brain of Miss Grace’s sinister remark anent
Charlie’s arm getting over the screen, at the end at which (doubtless
at her suggestion) he had gone on to bowl. Besides, he was grinning
in a way that, though surely very self-satisfied and ridiculous, was
disconcerting to a high degree. I certainly think that if in the
umpire’s opinion a bowler takes too great liberties with his face at
any period of his delivery of the ball, the said umpire should be
empowered to “no-ball” the said bowler. Probably the counties will
petition M.C.C.
I planted my right foot on the edge of the crease with mathematical
care, and set myself to meet the best bowler at either ’Varsity since
Sammy Woods. My straining eyes never left him for an instant as he
picked the ball up, worked his thumb up and down the seam, rubbed
it on the ground, and then walked jauntily to his starting-point. I
could see him all the way; the beautiful clear sunlight, the bright
new red ball, and my own intentness almost enabled me to read the
maker’s name on the cover as he held it in his hand whilst he
walked, trotted, galloped to the crease. As he brought his arm high
over his head, despite the cessation of the screen’s assistance, I
could see the thumb and two fingers in which he grasped the ball
and every bit of his powerful wrist work. I had no time to think or to
know where the ball was, however. But as it came humming from his
hand instinct said, “Go forward hard!” and forward I went, leg, bat,
and elbow, for all that I was worth. There was a delicious vibration
that told me the ball was timed to the second full in the middle of
the bat. It flew like a streak to mid-off all along the carpet; but mid-
off happened to be a county man, and it was back in the bowler’s
hands and threatening the Captain’s wicket just as “No!” had left my
mouth. And there was a personal compliment implied in the blinking
eyes of H. C. Trentham and the benevolent smile of H. J. Halliday
that was a recompense for all the pains I was enduring and many
hours of “duck”-requited toil. I was conscious of an elated thrill
running through my fibres as I awaited number two. Again I
watched it eagerly as it came spinning through the sunlight and
humming like a top; again I could not say exactly where it was, but
out went bat, and leg, and elbow as before, and mid-off was
afforded another opportunity for the exhibition of his skill. I set
myself defiantly for number three. Let H.C. Trentham bowl his heart
out. The third came along humming, and whizzing, and spinning in
the manner of the other two, but I had a vague sort of idea that it
was a little wider and a little farther up. It was faster than an
express train, but it merely appeared to delicately kiss the middle of
the bat in the gentlest, sweetest way.
 “Forward I went, leg, bat, and elbow.”
Willow, the King.] [Page 74.

“Oh, well hit!” came the voice of the Captain down the wicket. The
crowd broke into a roar, and in a perfect ecstasy I looked into what I
guessed should be the direction of the ball. Behold! there was cover-
point on the verge of the boundary waiting whilst a spectator
officiously returned it. It was merely the force of habit that was
responsible for that fourer, but the sensation of pure rapture was
incomparable. As there is nothing in the whole range of poetry or
prose with which to point a parallel, it must be allowed that beside a
perfectly-timed boundary hit, on a hard ground, from fast bowling,
all other delights of this life are as nothingness.
The fourth ball came along in much the same way as the third, yet
was appreciably shorter and slower. I left it severely alone. The fifth
was a regular uprooting yorker, but I got my bat down in time and
chopped it away. So much for the crack’s first over. I had broken my
duck in the most handsome manner; I could see the ball; I was
beginning to feel alarmingly happy; I never felt so fit and so much
like making runs. And I had only to continue as I’d started to be sure
of a trial for the county next week against Somerset. But I must
restrain my eagerness, play steady, and keep cool.
The Captain adopted the same tactics of masterly inactivity in regard
to the second over of the youthful T.S.M. He was quite an ordinary
club bowler compared to his great brother at the other end. A
shortish one was hooked quietly round to leg for a single, and it was
my turn to meet him. There was not a hint of my previous vacillation
in the way I took my guard. The buzzing in my head had altogether
gone; my eye was as clear and keen as possible. I had had my
baptism of fire already. This was very common stuff; indeed, so
much so that I took the liberty of turning the second ball I had of it
to leg for three.
It being the last ball of the over, I had again to face H. C. With a
bowler of his quality it requires a man of very great inexperience to
be quite at ease or to think of attempting liberties. Therefore, again
I concentrated the whole of my attention on every ball; and the
billiard-table pitch and a straight, unflinching bat enabled me to cope
with his second over. It was a maiden, but it called for brilliancy on
the part of mid-off, and a magnificent bit of fielding by Carteret in
the slips, who saved a keen late cut from being a boundary to make
it one. Each ball was timed to the instant; my wrists and the rare old
blade with the wrapping at the bottom seemed to be endowed with
magic; the sun was just in the right place; I had forgotten all about
my cap, the screen, the might of the attack—forgotten everything
but the joy of achievement, so supreme was the sense of making
runs with certainty and ease from county bowling, in the presence of
an appreciative crowd, on a great occasion. Here was Elysium. It
was a sufficient recompense for a hundred failures. If I kept playing
this game I couldn’t help but get ’em. Fifty was assured, perhaps;
who knew——? But no man can be sanguine in regard to his first
century. That is a bourn that few travellers ever reach.
The Captain played T. S. M. gently for another single. I trotted down
blithely to the other end. He was still bowling his slow leg-breaks,
but it would be folly to attempt to drive him, as his flight was so
deceptive; besides, he had three men out. One ball which he
delivered a full two yards behind the crease was tossed up so high
that it was difficult to resist, as it appeared to be almost a half-volley
at first sight. It actually dropped shorter than his others, however.
This was the ball with which he usually got his wickets; and
although, crude as it was, it might do well enough for schoolboys, it
was to be hoped that he didn’t expect a man who intended to
appear next week for his county to fall a victim to it! If he did, he
would very probably be disappointed. The feel of that three to leg
was still lingering in my wrist, and I was certain that this stroke
could be played with impunity on this wicket. Besides, it would show
the Captain at the other end that I was by no means content to
follow his lead, but had resources of my own. Again, if I persevered
in getting T. S. M. away to leg, he would be certain to pitch them up
a bit, and if he could only be persuaded to do that, sure as fate I
should go out to him and lift him clean over the ring! It wasn’t such
a very big hit; besides, I felt capable of doing anything with ordinary
club bowling. Really, I never felt so fit, and on such excellent terms
with everybody and everything! When I received the first ball of T. S.
M.’s next over I had a plan of the positions of the on-side fielders in
the corner of my eye. But it was such an excellent length that I had
to play defensively. To my infinite pleasure, I immediately saw that
the second was his usual shortish one. I promptly prepared to help
myself to another three, stepped into my wicket so to do, but was so
anxious to seize my opportunity that I had not troubled to note
exactly how short it was. Therefore it rose a little higher than I
expected, and I was also a little bit too soon. It hit me just above
the pad with an almost caressing gentleness.
“How was that?” said the bowler, turning round to the umpire.
This didn’t bother me in the least. I merely felt a trifle annoyed that
my ardour had caused me to let off so bad a ball. But my pleasant
meditations were suddenly disturbed by adjacent voices,—
“Chuckerrupp!”
It never entered my head that I could be out by any possibility. The
ball was a very vulgar long hop. I looked at the umpire with an air of
bewilderment. He had a stolid solemnity that was funereal. I saw his
hand go up. Thereon, with the blood buzzing into my ears, I made
tracks for the pavilion. All the way I went I could not realize that I
was out. My only sensation was the not unpleasing one of walking
swiftly. Dead silence reigned as I marched in head down, thinking of
nothing in particular. But the vision of the umpire’s upthrown hand
seemed to be painted on my retina.
The Ancient was in the dressing-room brandishing his bat.
“Rough luck, old man!” he said.
Thereupon he went out to take my vacant place at the wicket, while
I sat down, slowly mopped my wet face, rinsed my parched mouth,
and then proceeded to take my pads off in the dullest, most
apathetic manner.
 CHAPTER VI
Of a Young Person in Brown Holland
I WAS still seated, striving to break to myself the news that I really
must be out, and that my brave dreams were as dust, when the man
I least desired to see—the General Nuisance—appeared with his
condolence. He placed a shilling in my hand with an air of
indescribable tenderness.
“What’s this for?” I said.
“For your cricket outfit,” said he. “I knew that you’d wish to dispose
of it at once by private treaty, as you’ll never touch a bat again if you
live to be a hundred. A shilling for the lot, and a pretty liberal offer.”
When I slowly raised my face and looked at the General Nuisance,
there was that within it which caused him to somewhat hurriedly
remember that he had “got to see a man about a dog,” and he,
therefore, could not possibly stay just then to discuss the details.
The utterly abandoned appear to enjoy a charmed existence. It was
the same at the wicket. I’ve seen the General Nuisance dropped
more times in one afternoon than men who have had their moral
natures properly developed are in the course of a season.
Having convinced myself at last that I was actually out, I got up and
donned my blazer with an assumption of sad-eyed resignation. A
case of l.b.w. offers no scope for original and forcible combinations
of phrase; it has exhausted them quite a long time ago. Thus I filled
a pipe, and began pathetically to smoke. If it were not that the gods
gave tobacco to us to assuage our miseries, it is certain that
common humanity would insist on a lethal chamber being attached
to the pavilion of every cricket-ground, whereby poor mortals placed
as I was now might not continue in their sufferings.
I eventually went out and sat down with as much dignity as I could
assume on the pavilion front. There, staring me in the face, was the
grim legend, 10-1-7. Presently I found the courage to look at the
game. But it reminded me too acutely of the horrid void left gaping
in my young ambition. How I could see the ball, and how absurdly
simple did the bowling look! It always does when you’ve been in and
got out for a few. If you’ve been in and made a score, it is usual to
advise your successors to play a watchful game, as the bowling is by
no means so easy as it seems. Why didn’t the Ancient cut that ball
for four, instead of pecking at it? Why didn’t the Captain jump into
those ridiculous donkey-drops and hit ’em to the moon, instead of
playing back and contenting himself with singles? It was this
pottering, afternoon-tea kind of cricket that was ruining the game.
The team agreed that they had never seen me shape so well. But
what solace is it to be told this when one is out for seven? Here was
I fitness incarnate, timing and seeing the ball to a hair, condemned
to sit hours on the hard seat of that pavilion, eating my heart out
with inactivity, while others got ’em. Verily cricket is a cheerful
pastime! The perfect wicket, the glorious day, the appreciative
crowd, the chance of fame, and then l.b.w. 7.
“Of course, the ball did a lot,” said the Pessimist. “’Wouldn’t have hit
the wicket by a mile. Your leg couldn’t possibly have been in front,
and, of course in your humble opinion the blithering umpire is either
drunk or delirious.”
“Grimston,” said the Humourist, “you appear to suffer from a
deficient sympathy. It is very unkind of you to make remarks of this
sort, when you can see that the poor fellow is in pain. It is not
humour and it is not humanity.”
There was no alternative but to continue smoking with that placid
indifference that alone can cope with the vulgar, common wit that is
levelled at ourselves.
“Look at Brightside, lucky brute!” said the Secretary, “jawing on the
coach there with Miss Grace. Keeps her all to himself, the selfish
beggar! instead of coming down and introducing us.”
The Optimist appeared to be having a particularly happy time. He
was seated beside Miss Grace on the box-seat, talking in the most
animated manner, whilst she put down the runs in the Hickory score-
book, which she held on her knee. It is impossible to assess the
exact amount of envy he provoked in the susceptible bosoms of his
side seated on the pavilion front.
We were still discussing the good fortune of the Optimist, and
watching him pursue it, when he climbed down from his conspicuous
position and came along towards eight of his flannel-clad colleagues,
who had a terrible quantity of inflammable material in their manly
interiors.
“’Do believe he’s coming for us,” said the quick-eyed Secretary.
“S’pose he takes the bally team?”
“Isn’t it a good thing we’re so good-looking?” said the Humourist.
“I really can’t help my personal appearance,” said the General
Nuisance, with a simper.
“Soap might,” I said coarsely. But my temperature was very low.
The answer of the General Nuisance was very properly taking the
form of a naked fist; and I, on my part, was just proposing to test
the staying powers of his singularly beautiful aquiline nose, when the
Optimist arrived and lifted up his voice.
“Dimsdale,” said he importantly, “Grace Trentham wants to see you.
She thinks your batting’s prime. ’Says the way you stood up to
Charlie the perfection of style and confidence. No end of a critic, I
can tell you. ’Says your crack to cover’s test thing she’s seen in that
line since Lionel Palairet’s off-drive. In fact, my son, I rather think if
you’ll come and be presented to her you won’t be so very sorry. She
wants to see you awfully.”
The Optimist really was a very delightful person. He spoke loud
enough for all the team to hear. Nor was he content to make a bald
announcement of my honours, but managed to embroider them with