In the Days of Top Hats

by Horace Bleackley

A Cricket Story by Horace Bleackley.

n the days when Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch were toddling about in short frocks, the wife of an honest farmer named Wood gave birth to twin sons. From their earliest infancy the brothers were marvellously alike, and as they grew up their similarity of countenance caused the village schoolmaster to dub them the Two Dromios. This nickname, however, did not stick to them. The elder—by five minutes—very soon displayed wonderful skill at cricket, and because of his early success as a batsman he began to be called Notchy, while his twin-brother was never known by any other than the derivative of his Christian name, Richard.

As soon as Notchy reached man’s estate he began to grow ambitious, and longed to earn a reputation in the world of cricket. This fact coming to the ears of the lord of the manor, young Earl Jeffry, a keen sportsman with a peculiar reputation, he secured the young man an appointment with the famous club at Hamble Green, in Kent.

His brother Dicky, on the contrary, stuck like a leech to the little homestead.

Notchy, being a youth of remarkable talent at the game he loved, prospered in his new career, and very soon had earned a considerable reputation as a professional cricketer.

His fame was soon wafted from the garden of England to his northern home, and his native village became exceedingly proud of his reputation. Above all others Dicky Wood was most delighted at his brother’s success, and followed eagerly all his achievements described in the newspapers that were sent to him from the south. The simple yeoman had only one weak spot in his honest nature. His vanity aspired to emulate Notchy’s prowess at cricket! His duty to his farm left him little leisure, but all his spare moments were devoted to assiduous practice. Alas, his brother’s talent was denied him, and he was the only one who could not realise that he was a hopeless duffer.

One fine summer’s evening, about nine years after his brother’s departure from home, Dicky Wood was sitting in the little porch in front of his tiny cottage, gloating over one of Notchy’s rare epistles. This is how it ran:—

“Dere Dick,—May this find you well as it leeves me, and my lovin respects to mother. I plaid at Canterbury last week, and we won the choice of the first hand. There were over 700 balls bowled against us, and we plaid near the whole day. Our score was 250 notches and I got the longest hands, which was 72. We won easy, for Mr. Mynn pitched them his fastest, and they could not get in at them at all. After the match my Lord Bumper called me up and gave me a purse of five guineas, as he had won heavy over my hands. His lordship said I cut them at the point of my bat better nor any player, which was true as image many notches by setting myself up to that stroke.

“Some young bloods have backed Hamble Green in a match against Sampley club for 500 guineas to be plaid next week. With kind love to mother and all true friends who ask about me.

“Your faithful Brother.”

Dicky pondered lovingly over this letter, and his heart was not wholly free from the pangs of envy. He sighed to be a great cricketer like Notchy.

While he was thus occupied, a horseman coming along the country road drew rein opposite his gate, and springing from his saddle tethered his steed to the palings, and then advanced quickly down the garden path. The instant Dicky recognised him he sprang to his feet, and his fingers sought his hat instinctively.

“Good-evening, Dicky,” cried the newcomer, a handsome young man of rather dissipated appearance.

“She flattened our her palm suggestively.”

“Evenin’, my lord,” replied the confused farmer, uncovering.

Lord Jeffry, for he it was, threw himself carelessly upon one of the seats in the cottage porch, and lighted a cigar.

“Sit down, Wood,” he said to Dicky, who at once obeyed. “I want to have a chat with you.”

“Folks tell me, Wood," Lord Jeffry began with a keen glance at the simple farmer, “that you would like to be a great cricketer like your brother.”

Dicky’s eyes sparkled. It seemed to him that his chance of earning reputation had come at last.

“I’ve just ’ad a line fro’ Notchy,” he stammered.

“He’s been in luck, that brother of yours,” answered Lord Jeffry, with a cunning glance. “Why shouldn’t you follow his example?”

“Me!” exclaimed poor Dicky, scarcely believing his ears.

“Now, look here, Wood,” Lord Jeffry continued, impressively, “I’ve a mind to give you a chance, as I gave your brother Notchy nine years back, for I hear you shape a bit at cricket. Are you prepared to go with me down south to-morrow to play in a match? I’ll give you five guineas before we start, and if you shape to my liking you shall have fifty on the top of that. What d’you say to it, man?”

For a moment Dicky was speechless. Five guineas was the exact amount that Lord Bumper had given to Notchy.

“I fear I’m none good enough, my lord,” Dicky began nervously. “Nobbut I think as I could score plenty of notches if they didn’t always make me take last hands.”

“You’ll manage all right,” cried the young lord encouragingly. “You’ll find they won’t put you in last when you come back here again. Now, come, man, is it a bargain? Can the farm spare you for a week?”

“Maybe, now the hay’s all gathered,” replied Dicky thoughtfully. “But what shall I say to my old mother?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t tell her what you’re going for till you return,” said Lord Jeffry hastily. “Why, man, cricket’s just the job for a farmer. You’ll be able to earn a pot of brass if you do well, and have plenty of time to look after your farm besides.”

“Well, my lord,” answered Dicky with sudden resolution, “it’s mighty good o’ you to give me such a chance, and I’ll come wi’ you, hanged if I won’t!”

“You’re a sensible fellow, Dicky,” cried Lord Jeffry, looking extremely gratified. *⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠* Hamble Green common is in the centre of the village, so a very proper place for a cricket ground. Old fogies can come hither to watch the sport of their youth without tiring their ancient limbs, while small urchins have no need to stray far from the cottage home to learn their first lessons in the game. Boys on their way to school have a chance of witnessing a few overs without going out of the straight path, and tradesmen can look on at the play from their shop doors. At one extremity stands the “King’s Arms,” with the sturdy old oak tree in front of it, past which, and all along the side of the common, runs the London road. Branching off from this at right angles, and forming the northern boundary of the cricket field, is the Sampley road, across which lies the rectory garden, with its three stately elm trees rising close behind the hedge.

Here, on a platform constructed with two wash-tubs reversed and a plank, stood two small boys aged respectively ten and six years, who were watching most intently a cricket match that was in progress. A wicket had just fallen, and a fresh batsman was walking into the field. He was a sturdy, well-built man with a round, red, good-humoured face. He was dressed in the whitest of duck trowsers and a snowy flannel jacket, and wore a shining black silk hat.

“Hi, Margy, look,” cried the elder of the boys, turning round to his nurse, a plump, rosy-cheeked lass. “Here’s Notchy Wood, your sweetheart!”

The girl blushed crimson and gave the boy a slap on the seat of his nankeen breeches, which, as he was probably inured, he did not seem to notice.

“Is he good, Tommy?” inquired the younger boy in an awestruck voice.

“He’s played for the County against all England, you young booby,” exclaimed brother Tommy scornfully. “You know Notchy, don’t you?”

“What, is it the same as him who’s always coming to see Margy?” innocently demanded the six-year-old, who had never beheld a real cricket match before.

“You better mind, Master Frankie,” remarked the red-faced Margy, “or I’ll serve you as I did last night.”

And raising her round arm she flattened out her palm suggestively.

“It’s all right, Margy,” observed Tommy cheerfully. “Daddy said Notchy was a very worthy young man, when I told him about you.”

“Fie! for shame on you, Master Tommy!” cried the angry nursemaid, biting her lip. “Did anyone ever hear on such a tell-tale tit?”

The present match, being a friendly game between two clubs, was a very easy task for the famous Notchy Wood, and he worried the bowlers and fielders for a long time. His hitting was hard and strong, and although he made most of the runs in front of the wicket, a fierce cut occasionally, showing the strength and subtleness of his wrists, would have delighted his admirer Lord Bumper if he had been present. At last, after making forty notches, he was bowled.

“Hi, Margy, look,” cried Tommy a few moments later. “There’s Notchy coming down the road, and waving to you. Just look.”

The girl’s eager eyes had noticed this already, but her position rendered discretion necessary.

“Now, look ye here, Master Tommy and Master Frankie,” Margy remarked solemnly, “Notchy’s no concern of yourn, so mind that, and be good boys. Else I’ll remember it when you’ve got to have another slapping.”

“I won’t say nothing,” replied Tommy diplomatically.

Notchy Wood had now approached close to the hedge of the rectory garden, and was beckoning Margy to come to him.

With a look full of meaning at her young charges, the significance of which was not lost upon them, she skipped off with cheeks ablaze, and hurried to the place where her lover stood. The ground inside the garden dips down suddenly a little farther on where the gate leads into the road, and as the spot is surrounded on all sides by shrubs, and is well screened both from the common and the rectory windows, Notchy and Margy had found it most convenient as a trysting-place. In this spot a few seconds later they came face to face.

“We play our great game against Sampley to-morrow,” Notchy began, his arm still round his sweetheart’s waist after the first greetings were over.

“La, Notchy, it’s all cricket with thee,” answered the buxom Margy with a pout. “You talk ’bout nothing else.”

“Good reason, lass,” returned Notchy, his red, jolly face all over smiles. “My lord Bumper has promised me fifty guineas if Hamble Green wins. He’s backed us heavy. If I get the brass we can be wed as soon as the missus can let you off.”

Just then there was a rustling amongst the bushes, and turning her head Margy saw the mischievous Tommy slinking away, so tearing herself from her sweetheart’s arms she hurried after the young eavesdropper, vowing vengeance against him. As Notchy had to return to the cricket field they did not meet any more that day.

The next morning Hamble Green common presented a far more animated scene. The great match had attracted all the countryside, and enthusiasts had come from far and near. From an early hour the top-booted gentry had been arriving on horseback and in well-loaded traps, and not a farmer could have been found upon his land for miles around. The “King’s Arms” was doing a roaring trade, and its stable yard was crowded.

The group of farmers around the broad table at the side of the cricket field, where the drink was served and on which there lay a goodly stack of long pipes and a stout tobacco box, increased every minute.

The first arrivals appropriated all the available chairs and smoked stolidly, as they drank their rummers of brandy and water, and discussed the chances of the day’s match. But all found something to smoke and drink, whether they got a chair or not, and nearly every one of them laid his wager while waiting for the play to begin.

“Who’s matched Sampley?” cried Farmer Giles, a great bowler of former times, lighting his pipe at the lanthorn which an obsequious stable boy from the “King’s Arms” was holding for him.

“Lord Jeffry from the north, so they say,” returned a maltster of some importance.

“Then he’ll lose his five hundred guineas,” answered Farmer Giles, with a contemptuous puff. “I’ve laid seven to two myself on Hamble Green!”

“They’re saying Lord Jeffry’s backed Sampley for a large amount besides,” said a local innkeeper. “He’s a deep ’un, he is; I know him.”

At this moment a smart carriage and pair swept along the Sampley road past the booth and drew up in front of the “King’s Arms.” Two persons were seated inside. A young man fashionably attired in a swallow-tailed coat, with an ample neck-cloth of bright blue, and a cricketer in flannels, who wore the regulation tall hat.

“Hullo, that’s young Lord Jeffry and Notchy Wood, or I’m a Dutchman,” cried the innkeeper, pointing to the pair, who were just alighting from the carriage.

“What does he want with our Notchy?” growled Farmer Giles, suspiciously. “He’d like to square him, no doubt.”

“Notchy’s not a man o’ that sort,” exclaimed the maltster emphatically.

As Lord Jeffry’s carriage drew up before the village inn, a handsome, cheery-faced young man was coming out of the door.

“What, Jack,” he cried with delight. “They said you were not coming. But I knew you’d be here to have a run for your money.”

“Ay, Bumper, you know my ways,” replied Lord Jeffry, though not looking particularly pleased to meet his friend.

“Hello, Notchy,” said Lord Bumper, genially turning to the cricketer. “Have you been a drive with Lord Jeffry?”

The red-faced cricketer touched his hat and looked uncomfortable, but did not answer.

“Now then, Notchy, off with you, and get a few knocks for practice,” Lord Jeffry broke in hastily. “Lord Bumper and I want a talk in private.”

“I’ll lay you two thousand to one in guineas, Bumper, against Hamble Green,” began Lord Jeffry in a low voice as soon as the professional was out of earshot. “What d’you say, man?”

“Done like a shot,” replied Lord Bumper. “You seem pretty confident. You’ve not heard that anyone has been jalaping Notchy’s beer for him, have you?”

The young cricketer did not follow the advice of his patron with regard to having some practice, but after leaving the two young noblemen he strolled by the side of the common along the Sampley road. As he came to the rectory garden there was a call from the other side of the hedge, and lifting his eyes he saw the fair Margy waving to him.

“Come inside,” she cried, in a low voice.

Somewhat reluctantly he obeyed, and as soon as he entered the gate Margy as usual came to meet him with open arms, and gave him a sounding kiss.

“Thank ’ee, my dear,” he cried. “Do it again.”

And Margy did it again.

“I saw you driving past in that carriage,” said she, with cheeks aflame and eyes sparkling. “You did look fine.”

“Oh, I did, did I?” he answered, nodding his head.

“I wanted to tell you,” continued Margy, significantly, and glancing down very demurely, “that you must be sure to earn them fifty guineas.”

“I’ll do my best,” answered the young cricketer; “Lord Jeffry said this morning he’d no doubt I’d get it.”

“You told me it was Lord Bumper,” Margy replied. “Now, I hope you’re not telling fibs.”

“It’s true as houses,” he returned uneasily.

“And if you get the money,” continued Margy with a languishing look, “you’ll keep your promise, Notchy, and marry me right away, won’t you?”

And she threw her arms round his neck once more. He disengaged himself rather abruptly.

“E, I must be off,” he stammered, looking very shamefaced. “The match’ll be beginning in a iffy.”

“Now, do your best, dearie,” said Margy, pleadingly, as he hurried away.

There was a great crowd around the common to see the commencement of the game, and there was much satisfaction when it became known that Hamble Green had won the choice of the first hand. A burst of applause arose as the familiar figure of Notchy, accompanied by his usual partner, came out into the field to commence the innings. The first ball was low, and fast, and hit the batsman a hard blow on the shin.

“Poor old Notchy, we’ll be having someone killed by this new-fangled overcast bowling,” grumbled Farmer Giles, who was an uncompromising opponent of the Lillywhite school.

“He should have played it off his legs,” said the maltster, who was a bit of a critic. “Fuller Pilch would have got into that and sent it spinning.”

The next ball was well up on the off-side, but again Notchy missed it.

“He generally gets ’em when he goes for a cut,” remarked the innkeeper. “That was a wild stroke.”

“He should have hit ’em both,” said the maltster. “They were both cast up too far.”

The third ball felled Notchy’s middle stump.

“Why, that were a toss,” cried Farmer Giles, scratching his head.

“Lit full on the bails,” said the maltster. “They’re offering even money, Farmer. Will you have any more on?”

The luckless batsman walked from the wickets with drooping head, while the followers of Sampley cheered wildly, and the natives of Hamble Green pulled long faces for their champion had been dismissed without a notch.

“Well, Bumper, how d’you feel now?” said Lord Jeffry, grinning with delight at his friend.

“Wait till his next hands,” replied Lord Bumper, cheerfully hiding his mortification. “He’ll get a hundred notches.”

“‘Thank ’ee, my dear,’ he cried. ‘Do it again.’”

A few moments later Lord Jeffry felt a touch upon his arm, and turning round he saw the young professional standing just behind him. They walked off together.

“Oh, that’s the man who recommended Notchy here,” said the Rector, who had strolled up, indicating Lord Jeffry.

“Yes, but he’s been backing Sampley heavily,” replied Lord Bumper.

The Rector was a shrewd man, and what he had heard made him think.

“I know something of Notchy’s private affairs,” he proceeded, “I have often been his confidant. Do you know, I should like to walk with you to his cottage, my lord.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, at once.”

Meanwhile Lord Jeffry and the young man in cricket dress were strolling down the middle of the London Road, which was now deserted, as all were looking on at the cricket match.

“I’m sure there’s summat wrong, my lord,” the cricketer, was saying. “All the folk think I’m Notchy.”

“Well, what of that?” snapped Lord Jeffry testily.

“Well, my lord, it’s awk’ard,” replied Dicky, for Dicky of course he was. “For one, there’s a wench arter me. I didn’t mind that at first, for she’s a spanking lass, but directly she talked o’ marrying, and called me Notchy, I took to my heels. I cannot take up wi’ my brother’s sweetheart, for sure!”

“Then keep out of her way,” growled Lord Jeffry, slapping his boot with his cane.

“But that’s not all,” Dicky continued with a long face. “An old felly in top-boots has just been up to me and said, ‘Notchy, I’ve lost a guinea by your hands.’ Now, my lord, if he backed Notchy, why should he lose a guinea through me? When I came here I didn’t bargain to be taken for my brother. You never told me.”

“How should I imagine that the fools would think you were Notchy!” hissed Lord Jeffry fiercely.

“Well, why cannot I tell ’em t’ truth, my lord?” pleaded poor Dicky.

“Because you promised to hold your tongue,” retorted the young lord, angrily. “And if you blab, my fine fellow, I’ll make it hot for you. Recollect that.”

“But, my lord, please. I don’t feel comfortable wi’ folk losing their money because o’ me.”

“Look here, Wood, I’m the best judge of my own business, so let me have no more of your insolence. I’ve told you before, I’ll explain it all to you when the match is over.”

The young nobleman strolled away to the “King’s Arms” for a tankard of ale, and poor Dicky, quite abashed, sauntered aimlessly down the road. Presently he heard a shout behind, and looking round he saw Lord Bumper and the Rector, with the youthful Tommy, advancing towards him.

“Now, my lord, please mark,” the Rector was saying, as they came up. “I’m going to try an experiment.” Then, turning suddenly upon Dicky, he exclaimed, “Well, Dicky, my man, where’s brother Notchy?”

“I reckon he’s at home somewhere,” replied the unsuspecting Dicky, taken unawares. Then, suddenly realising that he had betrayed himself, he stood and gasped.

“So you are Mr. Dicky Wood!” cried the Rector gleefully. “And I’m sorry that you’re not an honest fellow like your brother. However, you’re not as much to blame as the rascal who has employed you.”

“What on earth does this mean?” demanded Lord Bumper, thunderstruck.

“Why, that this is Notchy’s twin brother, about whom he has often told me,” returned the triumphant Rector. “And that your friend Jeffry is a blackguard. But come along, we must find out what they’ve done to poor Notchy.”

And he led the way down the road.

“Why aren’t I an honest fellow, sir?” asked the luckless Dicky beseechingly, as he trudged after them.

“Because you were in league with Lord Jeffry to swindle folks out of their money,” retorted the Rector sternly.

“It’s the truth, sir, I never knew there were any swindle,” pleaded poor Dicky, piteously, and before they had gone very far he managed to convince his hearers of his innocence.

About two hundred yards distant from the common they arrived at the tiny cottage which was Notchy Wood’s home. The door was locked, but the muscular Rector burst it open without a moment’s hesitation. As they rushed in a low moan came from the inner room.

“Oh, poor Notchy!” cried Dicky, with tears running down his cheeks.

A curious sight met their view when they dashed through into the little bedroom beyond. A figure was seated in the only chair, bound fast with cords. The body was dressed in woman’s clothes, but the face on the top of them was most unquestionably the face of Notchy Wood.

“Good Lord deliver us!” cried the Rector involuntarily. “What have they been playing at!”

“They’ve spiled him,” babbled Dicky, who had become maudlin. “They’ve made him into a wench.”

“Let me loose,” roared Notchy in a very masculine voice.

He was soon untied, and in a very few words explained his adventures. He had been persuaded to accompany a few sporting fellows into a private room at the “Jolly Waggoners” the previous night. After drinking one glass of ale, he remembered nothing more until he found himself dressed in woman’s clothes and tied fast to a chair in his own bedroom.

“But why should they rig you out like this?” asked Lord Bumper, laughing in spite of himself at Notchy’s ridiculous appearance.

“Look there,” returned Notchy, by way of reply pointing to a bare and open cupboard, and a devastated chest of drawers. “They’ve stolen all my clothes!”

“It’s plain enough,” replied the Rector. “They left you nothing to wear so that if you escaped by any means it would take you longer to get on to the cricket ground.”

“Well, I can’t go like this,” answered Notchy, ruefully pointing to his petticoats.

“Now, then, Dicky,” cried the Rector authoritatively, “off with your clothes and give them to your brother.”

“But I can’t go about stark naked,” expostulated the shocked Dicky.

“Then put on his frocks,” retorted the Rector.

In a very short space the metamorphosis was complete, and Notchy and Dicky had exchanged clothes.

“Well, you’re as much alike as two pats of butter,” exclaimed the excellent Rector admiringly, when their respective toilets were complete. “Now just listen to me while I give you your orders!”

“Let me get on to that cricket field,” begged Notchy, to whom the situation had been hurriedly explained. “I’ll be in time to bowl if I can’t bat.”

The Hamble Green wickets fell rapidly after the dismissal of the supposititious Notchy, and in an hour the whole side was out for fifty runs. The intelligence was conveyed to Lord Jeffry at the “King’s Arms,” where, as the liquor was to his taste, he had

“‘Let me loose!’ roared Notchy in a very masculine voice.”

chosen to remain with a few kindred spirits, and he was consequently in rare good humour. About two o’clock Lord Bumper happened to thrust his head into the room, and the hilarious Jeffry at once hailed him.

“Hillo, Bumper, lad, how goes the match?” he roared, in tipsy good-humour. “Have Sampley notched their two hundred?”

“They’re all out for sixty notches!” retorted Lord Bumper, with cool satisfaction.

Lord Jeffry replied with a volley of oaths.

“That grand fellow Notchy’s been in rare form,” Lord Bumper continued. “None of them could play that overcast bowling of his.”

And as he was not disposed to remain any longer in the society of his false and dishonest friend, the young nobleman hastily withdrew.

“I’ll not believe it,” shouted Lord Jeffry. “It’s impossible. The fellow couldn’t hit a wicket.”

For naturally he imagined that Dicky was still standing in his brother’s shoes. However, a friend or two soon came in, and corroborated the information.

About four o’clock in the afternoon, when Lord Jeffry had become sufficiently sober, his companions managed to lead him out on to the common. The Hamble Green side was now batting.

“How are they getting along?” hiccuped the young lord anxiously, addressing generally the company in his immediate neighbourhood.

“Notchy’s still in, sir,” grunted Farmer Giles, who was sitting just in front, completely entranced.

“He’s made about eighty notches,” added the maltster admiringly. “It’s grand.”

“It’s different to his show in the first hand,” remarked the critical innkeeper.

“It’s a swindling trick,” thundered Lord Jeffry, swearing ferociously.

And he reeled away, followed by his friends, with the intention of seeking information from the scorers.

Scarcely had he gone ten yards when the figure of a woman suddenly appeared in his path—that is to say, the gaunt figure was dressed in female garb, but the expansive grinning scarlet face was in the likeness of the incomparable Notchy Wood.

For a moment Lord Jeffry gazed in terror, and then a drunken scream came from his throat.

“Take it away,” he yelled, turning to flee.

“It’s only an ugly wench, my lord,” cried a friend, gripping his arm.

Lord Jeffry escaped from his friend’s grasp and scampered away as fast as his legs could carry him. Fifteen minutes later his carriage was whirling him along the London road.

The match between Hable Green and Sampley was brought to an early conclusion on the following day, and thanks to the batting and bowling of the real Notchy, Hamble Green secured an easy victory. No one ever discovered that one player had been substituted for the other. As it was only just that all bets should stand, the home team having been so handicapped in the first innings, Lord Bumper and the Rector kept their own counsel, being anxious, for the sake of Lord Jeffry’s family, to avoid scandal. The young nobleman paid his wagers, but henceforth he never again gave his patronage to cricket, which was no loss to the game. He had hoped to take away the simple Dicky before his identity had been discovered, and had not reckoned that his own connection with Notchy’s disappearance would be suspected. He relied upon securing Dicky’s silence by telling him that he had rendered himself liable to a long term of imprisonment through impersonating his brother.

“Well, I’m very thankful,” said Dicky, as the two brothers sat together in the cricketer’s cottage the evening after the match, “that Lord Jeffry aren’t a landlord o’ mine.”

“And there’s one thing I’m thankful for, Dicky,” replied his brother, “and that is that our Rector’s got such a cute head-piece. Else I might be sitting here in wench’s clothes yet.”

 

“‘Take it away,’ he yelled, turning to flee.”