Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald

fastest. It was all taking shape even as I ran up to the wicket: I’d got Felix by skill, Pilch by luck, and I’d get Mynn by knavery or perish in the attempt. I fairly flung myself up to the crease, and let go a perfect snorter, dead on a length but a good foot wide of the leg stump. It bucked, Mynn stepped quickly across to let it go by, it flicked his calf, and by that time I was bounding across Aislabie’s line of sight, three feet off the ground, turning as I sprang and yelling at the top of my voice: ‘How was he there, sir?’

      Now, a bowler who’s also a Gentleman of Rugby don’t appeal unless he believes it; that gooseberry-eyed old fool Aislabie hadn’t seen a d----d thing with me capering between him and the scene of the crime, but he concluded there must be something in it, as I knew he would, and by the time he had fixed his watery gaze, Mynn, who had stepped across, was plumb before the stumps. And Aislabie would have been more than human if he had resisted the temptation to give the word that everyone in that ground except Alfie wanted to hear. ‘Out!’ cries he. ‘Yes, out, absolutely! Out! Out!’

      It was bedlam after that; the spectators went wild, and my team-mates simply seized me and rolled me on the ground; the cheering was deafening, and even Brown pumped me by the hand and slapped me on the shoulder, yelling ‘Bowled, oh, well bowled, Flashy!’ (You see the moral: cover every strumpet in London if you’ve a mind to, it don’t signify so long as you can take wickets.) Mynn went walking by, shaking his head and cocking an eyebrow in Aislabie’s direction – he knew it was a crab decision, but he beamed all over his big red face like the sporting ass he was, and then did something which has passed into the language: he took off his boater, presented it to me with a bow, and says:

      ‘That trick’s worth a new hat any day, youngster.’

      (I’m d----d if I know which trick he meant,⁴ and I don’t much care; I just know the leg-before-wicket rule is a perfectly splendid one, if they’ll only let it alone.)

      After that, of course, there was only one thing left to do. I told Brown that I’d sprained my arm with my exertions – brought back the rheumatism contracted from exposure in Afghanistan, very likely … horrid shame … just when I was finding a length … too bad … worst of luck … field all right, though … (I wasn’t going to run the risk of having the other Kent men paste me all over the ground, not for anything). So I went back to the deep field, to a tumultuous ovation from the gallery, which I acknowledged modestly with a tip of Mynn’s hat, and basked in my glory for the rest of the match, which we lost by four wickets. (If only that splendid chap Flashman had been able to go on bowling, eh? Kent would have been knocked all to smash in no time. They do say he has a jezzail bullet in his right arm still – no it ain’t, it was a spear thrust – I tell you I read it in the papers, etc., etc.)

      It was beer all round in the pavilion afterwards, with all manner of congratulations – Felix shook my hand again, ducking his head in that shy way of his, and Mynn asked was I to be home next year, for if the Army didn’t find a use for me, he could, in the casual side which he would get together for the Grand Cricket Week at Canterbury. This was flattery on the grand scale, but I’m not sure that the sincerest tribute I got wasn’t Fuller Pilch’s knitted brows and steady glare as he sat on a bench with his tankard, looking me up and down for a full two minutes and never saying a word.

      Even the doddering Duke came up to compliment me and say that my style reminded him absolutely of his own – ‘Did I not remark it to you, my dear?’ says he to his languid tart, who was fidgeting with her parasol and stifling a yawn while showing me her handsome profile and weighing me out of the corner of her eye. ‘Did I not observe that Mr Flashman’s shooter was just like the one I bowled out Beauclerk with at Maidstone in ’06? – directed to his off stump, sir, caught him goin’ back, you understand pitched just short, broke and shot, middle stump, bowled all over his wicket – ha! ha! what?’

      I had to steady the old fool before he tumbled over demonstrating his action, and his houri, assisting, took the opportunity to rub a plump arm against me. ‘No doubt we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Canterbury next summer, Mr Flashman,’ she murmurs, and the old pantaloon cries aye, aye, capital notion, as she helped him away; I made a note to look her up then, since she’d probably have killed him in the course of the winter.

      It wasn’t till I was towelling myself in the bathhouse, and getting outside a brandy punch, that I realized I hadn’t seen Elspeth since the match ended, which was odd, since she’d hardly miss a chance to bask in my reflected glory. I dressed and looked about; no sign of her among the thinning crowd, or outside the pavilion, or at the ladies’ tea tables, or at our carriage; coachee hadn’t seen her either. There was a fairish throng outside the pub, but she’d hardly be there, and then someone plucked my sleeve, and I turned to find a large, beery-faced individual with black button eyes at my elbow.

      ‘Mr Flashman, sir, best respex,’ says he, and tapped his low-crown hat with his cudgel. ‘You’ll forgive the liberty, I’m sure – Tighe’s the monicker, Daedalus Tighe, ev’yone knows me, agent an’ accountant to the gentry—’ and he pushed a card in my direction between sweaty fingers. ‘Takin’ the hoppor-toonity, my dear sir an’ sportsman, of presentin’ my compliments an’ best vishes, an’—’

      ‘Thank’ee,’ says I, ‘but I’ve no bets to place.’

      ‘My dear sir!’ says he, beaming. ‘The werry last idea!’ And he invited his cronies, a seedy-flash bunch, to bear him witness. ‘My makin’ so bold, dear sir, was to inwite you to share my good fortun’, seein’ as ’ow you’ve con-tribooted so ’andsome to same – namely, an’ first, by partakin’ o’ some o’ this ’ere French jam-pain – poodle’s p--s to some, but as drunk in the bes’ hestablishments by the werriest swells such as – your good self, sir. Wincent,’ says he, ‘pour a glass for the gallant—’

      ‘Another time,’ says I, giving him my shoulder, but the brute had the effrontery to catch my arm.

      ‘’Old on, sir!’ cries he. ‘’Arf a mo’, that’s on’y the sociable pree-liminary. I’m vishful to present to your noble self the—’

      ‘Go to the d---l!’ snaps I. He stank of brandy.

      ‘—sum of fifty jemmy o’ goblins, as an earnest o’ my profound gratitood an’ respeck. Wincent!’

      And d----d if the weasel at his elbow wasn’t thrusting a glass of champagne at me with one hand and a fistful of bills in the other. I stopped short, staring.

      ‘What the deuce …?’

      ‘A triflin’ token of my hes-teem,’ says Tighe. He swayed a little, leering at me, and for all the reek of booze, the flash cut of his coat, the watch-chain over his flowery silk vest, and the gaudy bloom in his lapel – the marks of the vulgar sport, in fact – the little eyes in his fat cheeks were as hard as coals. ‘You vun it for me, my dear sir – an’ plenty to spare, d---e. Didn’t ’e, though?’ His confederates, crowding round, chortled and raised their glasses. ‘By the sweat – yore pardon, sir – by the peerspyration o’ yore brow – an’ that good right arm, vot sent back Felix, Pilch, an’ Alfred Mynn in three deliveries, sir. Look ’ere,’ and he snapped a finger to Vincent, who dropped the glass to whip open a leather satchel at his waist – it was stuffed with notes and coin.

      ‘You, sir, earned that. You did, though. Ven you put avay Fuller Pilch – an’, veren’t that a ’andsome catch, now? – I sez to Fat Bob Napper, vot reckons e’s king o’ the odds an’ evens – “Napper,” sez I, “that’s a ’ead bowler, that is. Vot d’ye give me ’e don’t put out Mynn, first ball?” “Gammon,” sez ’e. “Three in a row – never! Thahsand to one, an’ you can pay me now.” Generous odds, sir, you’ll allow.’ And the rascal winked and tapped his nose. ‘So – hon goes my quid – an’ ’ere’s Napper’s thahsand, cash dahn, give ’im that – an’ fifty on it’s yore’s, my gallant sir, vith the grateful compliments of Daedalus Tighe, Hesk-wire, agent an’ accountant to the gentry, ’oo ’ereby salutes’ – and he raised his glass and belched unsteadily – ‘yore ’onner’s pardon, b----r