The Wonder (4 page)

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

When Stott unwillingly came back to the pavilion, a low murmur ran round the ring, like the buzz of a great crowd of disturbed blue flies. In that murmur I could distinctly trace the signs of mixed feelings. No doubt the crowd had come there to witness the performances of the new phenomenon—the abnormal of every kind has a wonderful attraction for us—but, on the other hand, the majority wanted to see their own county win. Moreover, Mallinson was giving them a taste of his abnormal powers of hitting, and the batsman appeals to the spectacular, more than the bowler.

I ran down hurriedly to meet Stott.

“Only a split finger, sir,” he said carelessly, in answer to my question; “but Mr. Findlater says I must see to it.”

I examined the finger, and it certainly did not seem to call for surgical 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 fleshy underside of the second joint of the middle finger.

“Better have it seen to,” I said. “We can’t afford to lose you, you know, Stott.”

Stott gave a laugh that was more nearly a snarl. “Ain’t the first time I’ve ’ad a cut finger,” he said scornfully.

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

But after lunch Stott came out and took the first over. I don’t know what had passed between him and Findlater, but the captain had evidently been over-persuaded.

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

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

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

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

Again one sees, now, that the visit to Gregory should not have been postponed, but at the time one does not take extraordinary precautions in such a case as this. A split finger is such an everyday thing, and one is guided by the average of experience. After all, if one were constantly to make preparation for the abnormal; ordinary life could not go on. …

I heard that Gregory pursed his lips over that finger when he had learned the name of his famous patient. “You’ll have to be very careful of this, young man,” was Findlater’s report of Gregory’s advice. It was not sufficient. I often wonder now whether Gregory might not have saved the finger. If he had performed some small operation at once, cut away the poison, it seems to me that the tragedy might have been averted. I am, I admit, a mere layman in these matters, but it seems to me that something might have been done.

I left Nottingham on Saturday after lunch—the weather was hopeless—and I did not make use of the information I had for the purposes of my paper. I was never a good journalist. But I went down to Ailesworth on Monday morning, and found that Findlater and Stott had already gone to Harley Street to see Graves, the King’s surgeon.

I followed them, and arrived at Graves’s house while Stott was in the consulting-room. I hocussed the butler and waited with the patients. Among the papers, I came upon the famous caricature of Stott in the current number of
Punch
—the “Stand-and-Deliver” caricature, in which Stott is represented with an arm about ten feet long, and the batsman is looking wildly over his shoulder to square leg, bewildered, with no conception from what direction the ball is coming. Underneath is written “Stott’s New Theory—the Ricochet. Real Ginger.” While I was laughing over the cartoon, the butler came in and nodded to me. I followed him out of the room and met Findlater and Stott in the hall.

Findlater was in a state of profanity. I could not get a sensible word out of him. He was in a white heat of pure rage. The butler, who seemed as 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 the information. “Finger’s got to come off, sir,” he said quietly. “Doctor says 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 the journalistic point of view, but I made up my three columns with a heavy heart, and the congratulations of my editor only sickened me. I had some luck, but I should never have become a good journalist.

The operation was performed successfully that evening, and Stott’s career was closed.

I did not see Stott again till August, and then I had a long talk with him on the Ailesworth County Ground, as together we watched the progress of Hampdenshire’s defeat by Lancashire.

“Oh! I can’t learn him
nothing
,” he broke out, as Flower was hit to the four corners of the ground, “’alf vollies and long ’ops and then a full pitch—’e’s a disgrace.”

“They’ve knocked him off his length,” I protested. “On a wicket like this …”

Stott shook his head. “I’ve been trying to learn’im,” he said, “but he can’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 bowl without my finger”—he held up his mutilated hand—“or left-’anded; but I can’t. If I’d started that way … No! I’m always feeling for that finger as is gone. A second-class bowler I might be in time, not better nor that.”

“It’s early days yet,” I ventured, intending encouragement, but Stott frowned and shook his head.

“I’m not going to kid myself,” he said, “I know. But I’m going to find a youngster 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 to Stoke-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 of matinée and benefit, invested for him by the Committee of the County Club, produced an income of nearly two pounds a week, and in addition to this 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. He had 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 chances of that. It’s the kid I’m thinking on.”

“The kid?” I repeated, doubtful whether he spoke of his fiancée, or whether his nuptials pointed an act of reparation.

“What, else ’ud I tie myself up for?” asked Stott. “I must ’ave a kid of my 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 my life, and by good luck I started right. But I can’t find another kid over seven years old in England as ain’t never bowled a ball o’ some sort 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 a ball afore he’s fourteen, and then ’e’ll learn from me; and learn right. From the first go off.” He was silent for a few seconds, and then he 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 of the latent potentialities of the man, the remarkable depth and quality of his ambitions. …

I intended to be present at Stott’s wedding, but I was not in England when it took place; indeed, for the next two years and a half I was never in England for more than a few days at a time. I sent him a wedding-present, an inkstand in the guise of a cricket ball, with a pen-rack that was built of little silver wickets. They were still advertised that Christmas as “Stott inkstands.”

Two years and a half of American life broke up many of my old habits of thought. When I first returned to London I found that the cricket news no longer held the same interest for me, and this may account for the fact that I did not trouble for some time to look up my old friend Stott.

In July, however, affairs took me to Ailesworth, and the associations of the place naturally led me to wonder how Stott’s marriage had turned out, and whether the much-desired son had been born to him. When my business in Ailesworth was done, I decided to walk out to Stoke-Underhill.

The road passes the County Ground, and a match was in progress, but I walked by without stopping. I was wool-gathering. I was not thinking of the man I was going to see, or I should have turned in at the County Ground, where he would inevitably have been found. Instead, I was thinking 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 shown me. I had by then so far recovered my wits as to know that I should not find Stott himself there, but from the look of the cottage I judged that it was untenanted, so I made inquiries at the post-office.

“No; he don’t live here, now, sir,” said the postmistress; “he lives at Pym, now, sir, and rides into Ailesworth on his bike.” She was evidently about to furnish me with other particulars, but I did not care to hear them. I was moody and distrait. I was wondering why I should bother my head about so insignificant a person as this Stott.

“You’ll be sure to find Mr. Stott at the cricket ground,” the postmistress called after me.

Another two months of English life induced a return to my old habits of thought. I found myself reverting to old tastes and interests. The reversion was a pleasant one. In the States I had been forced out of my groove, compelled to work, to strive, to think desperately if I would maintain any standing among my contemporaries. But when the perpetual stimulus was removed, I soon fell back to the less strenuous methods of my own country. I had time, once more, for the calm reflection that is so unlike the urgent, forced, inventive thought of the American journalist. I was braced by that thirty months’ experience, perhaps hardened a little, but by September my American life was fading into the background; I had begun to take an interest in cricket again.

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

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

Pym is a tiny hamlet made up of three farms and a dozen scattered cottages. Perched on one of the highest summits of the Hampden Hills and lost in the thick cover of beech woods, without a post-office or a shop, Pym is the most perfectly isolated village within a reasonable distance of London. As I sauntered up the mile-long lane that climbs the steep hill, and is the only connection between Pym and anything approaching a decent road, I thought that this was the place to which I should like to retire for a year, in order to write the book I had so often contemplated, and never found time to begin. This, I reflected, was a place of peace, of freedom from all distraction, the place for calm, contemplative meditation.

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

I inquired at the first cottage and received my direction to Stott’s dwelling. It lay up a little lane, the further of two cottages joined together.

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, and on her knee, held with rigid attention, was the remarkable baby I had seen in the train two months before. As I stood, doubtful and, I will confess it, intimidated, suddenly cold and nervous, the child opened his eyes and honoured me with a cold stare. Then he nodded, a reflective, recognisable nod.