"It seems all right," he said, after waving it about. "Rather a good one."
I laid it down on the floor and looked at it. Then I turned it on its face and looked at it. And then I knew.
"It wants a little silver shield on the back," I said. "That's it."
"Why, is it a presentation bat?" asked Henry.
"In a sense, yes. It was presented to me by Twyford."
"What for?"
"Really," I said modestly, "I hardly like― Why do people give one things? Affection, Henry; pity, generosity—er―"
"Are you going to put that on the shield? 'Presented out of sheer pity to―'"
"Don't be silly; of course not. I shall put 'Presented in commemoration of his masterly double century against the Authentics,' or something like that. You've no idea how it impresses the wicket–keeper. He really sees quite a lot of the back of one's bat."
"Your inscription," said Henry, as he filled his pipe slowly, "will be either a lie or extremely unimpressive."
"It will be neither, Henry. If I put my own name on it, and talked about my double century, of course it would be a lie; but the inscription will be to Stanley Bolland."
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. I've just made him up. But now, supposing my little shield says, 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C.—Season 1912. Batting average 116.34.'—how is that a lie?"
"What does H.P.C.C. stand for?"
"I don't know. It doesn't mean anything really. I'll leave out 'Batting average' if it makes it more truthful. 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C., 1912. 116.34.' It's really just a little note I make on the back of my bat to remind me of something or other I've forgotten. 116.34 is probably Bolland's telephone number or the size of something I want at his shop. But by a pure accident the wicket–keeper thinks it means something else; and he tells the bowler at the end of the over that it's that chap Bolland who had an average of over a century for the Hampstead Polytechnic last year. Of course that makes the bowler nervous and he starts sending down long–hops."
"I see," said Henry; and he began to read his paper again.
So to–morrow I take my bat to the silversmith's and have a little engraved shield fastened on. Of course, with a really trustworthy weapon I am certain to collect pots of runs this season. But there is no harm in making things as easy as possible for oneself.
And yet there is this to be thought of. Even the very best bat in the world may fail to score, and it might so happen that I was dismissed (owing to some defect in the pitch) before my silver shield had time to impress the opposition. Or again, I might (through ill–health) perform so badly that quite a wrong impression of the standard of the Hampstead Polytechnic would be created, an impression which I should hate to be the innocent means of circulating.
So on second thoughts I lean to a different inscription. On the back of my bat a plain silver shield will say quite simply this:—
TO
STANLEY BOLLAND,
FOR SAVING LIFE AT SEA.
FROM A FEW ADMIRERS.
Thus I shall have two strings to my bow. And if, by any unhappy chance, I fail as a cricketer, the wicket–keeper will say to his comrades as I walk sadly to the pavilion, "A poor bat perhaps, but a brave—a very brave fellow."
It becomes us all to make at least one effort to brighten cricket.
Uncle Edward
Celia has more relations than would seem possible. I am gradually getting to know some them by sight and a few more by name, but I still make mistakes. The other day, for instance, she happened to say she was going to a concert with Uncle Godfrey.
"Godfrey," I said, "Godfrey. No, don't tell me—I shall get it in a moment. Godfrey … Yes, that's it; he's the architect. He lives at Liverpool, has five children, and sent us the asparagus–cooler as a wedding present."
"No marks," said Celia.
"Then he's the unmarried one in Scotland who breeds terriers. I knew I should get it."
"As a matter of fact he lives in London and breeds oratorios."
"It's the same idea. That was the one I meant. The great point is that I placed him. Now give me another one." I leant forward eagerly.
"Well, I was just going to ask you—have you arranged anything about Monday?"
"Monday," I said, "Monday. No, don't tell me—I shall get it in a moment. Monday … He's the one who― Oh, you mean the day of the week?"
"Who's a funny?" asked Celia of the teapot.
"Sorry; I really thought you meant another relation. What am I doing? I'm playing golf if I can find somebody to play with."
"Well, ask Edward."
I could place Edward at once. Edward, I need hardly say, is Celia's uncle; one of the ones I have not yet met. He married a very young aunt of hers, not much older than Celia.
"But I don't know him," I said.
"It doesn't matter. Write and ask him to meet you at the golf club. I'm sure he'd love to."
"Wouldn't he think it rather cool, this sudden attack from a perfectly unknown nephew? I fancy the first step ought to come from uncle."
"But you're older than he is."
"True. It's rather a tricky point in etiquette. Well, I'll risk it."
This was the letter I sent to him:—
"MY DEAR UNCLE EDWARD,—Why haven't you written to me this term? I have spent the five shillings you gave me when I came back; it was awfully ripping of you to give it to me, but I have spent it now. Are you coming down to see me this term? If you aren't you might write to me; there is a post–office here where you can change postal orders.
"What I really meant to say was, can you play golf with me on Monday at Mudbury Hill? I am your new and favourite nephew, and it is quite time we met. Be at the club–house at 2.30, if you can. I don't quite know how we shall recognize each other, but the well–dressed man in the nut–brown suit will probably be me. My features are plain but good, except where I fell against the bath–taps yesterday. If you have fallen against anything which would give me a clue to your face you might let me know. Also you might let me know if you are a professor at golf; if you are, I will read some more books on the subject between now and Monday. Just at the moment my game is putrid.
"Your niece and my wife sends her love. Good–bye. I was top of my class in Latin last week. I must now stop, as it is my bath–night.
"I am,
"Your loving
"NEPHEW."
The next day I had a letter from my uncle:—
"MY DEAR NEPHEW,—I was so glad to get your nice little letter and to hear that you were working hard. Let me know when it is your bath–night again; these things always interest me. I shall be delighted to play golf with you on Monday. You will have no difficulty in recognizing me. I should describe myself roughly as something like Apollo and something like Little Tich, if you know what I mean. It depends how you come up to me. I am an excellent golfer and never take more than two putts in a bunker.
"Till 2.30 then. I enclose a postal–order for sixpence, to see you through the rest of the term.
"Your favourite uncle,
"EDWARD."
I showed it to Celia.
"Perhaps you could describe him more minutely," I said. "I hate wandering about vaguely and asking everybody I see if he's my uncle. It seems so odd."
"You're sure to meet all right," said Celia confidently. "He's—well, he's nice–looking and—and clean–shaven—and, oh, you'll recognize him."
At 2.30 on Monday I arrived at the club–house and waited for my uncle. Various people appeared, but none seemed in want of a nephew. When 2.45 came there was still no available uncle. True, there was one unattached man reading in a corner of the smoke–room, but he had a moustache—the sort of heavy moustache one associates with a major.