A Substitute

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 1 / 11
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
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I have some knowledge of cricket—not much, perhaps, but certainly some. I was never in the university team, nor near it, but I played in the Freshman's match and wore spectacles. I nearly made the school team once, when I carried my bat for forty-five. I must admit that performance surprised everyone, including myself. But since I never repeated it or anything like it, they wisely left me out of the eleven.

So it will be seen that, from a cricketing point of view, I never reached top form even in my best days, which were a good fifteen years before last summer. During those fifteen years I don't remember once holding a bat, let alone hitting a ball with one. Yet, in this unprepared state, last summer I had the audacity to captain a team and lead them not to victory but to disgrace. It's true. The match was Storwell versus Latchmere. Storwell was my team, and since I believe no more remarkable match was ever played in cricket history, I venture to report it here.

When they first asked me to play, I thought they were mad. Storwell-on-Sea is a village on the south coast—pardon me, the locals call it a town. It's a pretty place, not unknown in the area, with its season and all that. I was there during the season when a deputation of locals called on me at my lodgings to ask if I would lead the local cricket club to, say, victory. As I said, my first thought was that they were mad, or else they were playing a joke on the unsuspecting stranger.

I hinted as much to the deputation. They smiled. The chief spokesman was the local barber, Mr. Sapsworth. He explained that Mr. Wingrave had sent them. Wingrave was the vicar; we were at college together, and he must have known perfectly well my cricketing abilities. I decided to crush the deputation before things went further.

"To show you the sort of man you propose as captain, I need only mention that it's been over fifteen years since I held a bat."

But that didn't crush them; quite the opposite. It opened the floodgates of their eloquence.

"That's nothing," Mr. Sapsworth cried. "Look at Hedges here; we've had to put him in even though he doesn't know the rules and he's just turned sixty-one."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 2 / 11
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
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I glanced at Mr. Hedges, thus frankly referred to. He was a smiling, red-faced, bald-headed old gentleman who, if not tall, was certainly wide. He must have weighed sixteen stone. I felt that to cricketers who intended to play Mr. Hedges, any objections I raised would seem trivial.

"When is the match?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," was the startling reply.

I was speechless. That I, after fifteen years of total abstention, should be asked to captain a team of strangers, whose playing styles were unknown to me, in a match against an unknown foe, on only twenty-four hours' notice, was hard to believe. It was preposterous. I told them so, but they wouldn't see it.

In the end, I agreed to play. No man knows how low he can sink until he tries.

---

The match was to be played on Mr. Stubbs's field. Mr. Stubbs was a local butcher. Mr. Sapsworth had kindly offered to escort me. He arrived at half past nine as I was opening my letters. On the way, he gave me an overview. It appeared that our batting was weak, fielding poor, and bowling shaky.

"But we'll pull through," Mr. Sapsworth added, glancing at me.

"I hope you have no illusions about my abilities, Mr. Sapsworth. I was never a first-rate cricketer, and it's been over fifteen years since I held a bat."

"If you'll excuse my saying, sir, I've generally noticed that those who say little do a lot."

That was one way to look at it, but if I did a lot, it would be a pleasant surprise to me.

"And our opponents—what are they like?"

Mr. Sapsworth turned up his nose—literally.

"If we're bad, they're worse. The only thing those Latchmere fellows are good at is cheating. You'll have to watch them closely, or they'll claim our men out when they're not, and they won't go out themselves even if you bowl all three stumps."

"Surely those matters are for the umpires," I suggested.

"Umpires!" Up went his nose again. "They bring their own umpire with his own ideas. But we have our own umpire too."

I said nothing, but his words gave me an uneasy feeling about the game's fairness.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 3 / 11
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
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When we arrived, a good crowd was already in Mr. Stubbs's field. A tent was set up, with a motley collection of men and boys around it. Some forty or fifty others were practicing on the very pitch we were to play on. I consoled myself that the worse the ground, the better my bowling would do.

Mr. Sapsworth introduced me to the crowd. Some touched their caps, others nodded, some grinned.

"Good morning, gentlemen. We're going to have a fine day. Is our whole team here?"

Mr. Sapsworth answered for them after searching around: "They're all here. I suppose those Latchmere fellows haven't come yet?"

They hadn't, and they didn't for another hour. I used the time to get to know my players and set the batting order and fielding positions—simple in theory but difficult in practice. At last, the Latchmere men arrived.

Their captain was introduced to me. I later learned he was a blacksmith; I guessed by his handshake. His opening words were surprising: "We won't play if you have eleven men."

I asked what he meant.

"We've only got ten," he said. "And one's Soft Sawney, another Sprouts."

I don't know if those were their real names or nicknames, but he pulled two of his players forward. One was a long, weedy youth who was clearly half-witted; the other was a portly old man of fifty-five or six with a barrel-like stomach.

Mr. Sapsworth intervened: "What? We have Hedges!" He brought Mr. Hedges forward. I couldn't help feeling that Mr. Hedges balanced Mr. Sprouts, but if Mr. Hedges could run more than a dozen yards without stopping, I'd eat my hat.

"But we've only got ten men," insisted Mr. Barker. "You'll have to play with ten too. If you don't, we won't play at all."

There was a prospect of unpleasantness before the match even began. It seemed one of us would have to sit out to satisfy Mr. Barker's unreasonable demand. I was about to volunteer myself, for I instinctively knew I was no match for him as captain, when something curious happened.

Suddenly, a newcomer appeared. No one had seen him approach, yet there he was, standing between the Latchmere captain and me. His presence was so unexpected and startling that I stared. He seemed to have come out of thin air.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 4 / 11
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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He was a big, burly fellow with smooth cheeks, a round face, a bullet-shaped head, and sleepy black eyes.

"Let me play for you," he said.

For a moment, Mr. Barker stared in surprise like the rest of us. Then he jumped at the offer: "Let you? Rather!" He thrust out his hand and grabbed the stranger's palm, but immediately dropped it with an exclamation: "Why, what's the matter? Aren't you well? Your hand's as cold as a corpse."

I stepped aside with Mr. Sapsworth.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"I don't know, yet I seem to have seen his face before. But let them have him. He doesn't look like much."

He didn't. I'd seldom seen anyone less like a cricketer. His costume was ridiculous: large check trousers—a pattern so loud that even an Oxford tailor would have warned an undergraduate—a huge top hat that would have suited a music-hall comedian, a red woollen muffler wound several times around his neck, and an enormous overcoat of a style I'd never seen. The day promised to be scorching, yet Mr. Barker had exclaimed about the stranger's cold hand.

We won the toss and chose to bat. I led off with a young lad named Fenning, who seemed too loutish to be much of a player. Mr. Barker bowled first. I soon saw his strength wasn't in bowling. I told myself that if I kept my head and he got me out, it would be due to the rough ground, for few wickets have been pitched on worse turf. But I was too nervous to take liberties even with Mr. Barker. When the first over ended and I was still in, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The other bowler was equally mediocre. So things went better than expected. I had scored eleven—six off Mr. Barker and the rest off his friend.

Even Fenning had managed two, literally hitting the ball. I was beginning to think I was getting set, a rare feeling, when something happened that reminded me never to count chickens before they hatch.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 5 / 11
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
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Mr. Barker was about to bowl, the ball in hand, when the substitute—the stranger who'd volunteered—marched right across the field. Mr. Barker called to him to stay, but he strode on, reached Mr. Barker, and silently held out his hand for the ball. I expected the captain to protest, but to my surprise he meekly surrendered the ball and slunk away. The substitute was now bowling.

He quickly removed his muffler, overcoat, and top hat, laying them on the ground. Underneath he wore a tight-fitting jacket with the same check pattern as his trousers. From his look, I never thought he could bowl. But he could. His action was peculiar: he walked up to the wicket, stood still, and delivered with a curious flick of the wrist. The pace was amazing. The ball pitched a good two feet to the off and broke back sharply. I was so startled by the speed—it hummed in the air like the old stories of Lillywhite—that I didn't move my bat. That saved me, though it nearly knocked the bat from my hands. I told myself I'd be out on the next one. Yet I managed to stop the next four balls, how I don't know, but the sixth took my middle stump, shearing it clean off.

As I entered the tent, the scorer asked, "What name?"

"Tom Benyon," replied the bowler.

Mr.

Hedges, sitting by the scorer, slammed his fist on the table: "I knew it! I knew him all along! That chap who bowled you isn't a man—he's a ghost."

"He bowls with a lot of pace for a ghost," I answered.

"And so he should. Did you hear his name? Tom Benyon! There wasn't a better cricketer around these parts. He played in London, got well paid too. But he was always a queer sort. I knew him well. I saw him buried. If that's him, not his ghost, he hasn't aged a day in twenty years."

I laughed, thinking he was joking. But when our second batsman went in, Mr. Sapsworth drew me aside.

"I don't like the look of this," he said.

"Nor I," I replied, thinking he meant the bowling. "He'll knock our stumps over like ninepins."

"It's not that. It's the man."

"You mean the ghost?" I joked.

"It's easy to laugh. But..." He paused, ashamed yet suspicious. "I thought I'd seen him before. It is Tom Benyon."

"He says he is, so he should know."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 6 / 11
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
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"Yes," Mr. Sapsworth fidgeted, "but Tom Benyon's been dead twenty years."

"Dead!" I laughed. "He seemed very alive to me."

Mr. Sapsworth continued: "When I was a boy, Tom Benyon used to come into my father's shop to be shaved. He was always drinking. One morning I was alone, and he came in dead drunk. He made me sit in the shaving chair and started to shave me—soaped my whole face, hair, everything. I was so scared I couldn't scream. I watched him sharpen the razor, then he began shaving off my hair. He'd got half of it off and I was bleeding, when my father walked in. If he hadn't, Tom would have finished me."

He paused, still shaken by the memory.

"There was something odd about his death. Some said drink, some said he did it himself. Anyway, everyone came to the funeral. I was there. I remember it as if it were yesterday."

As I pondered this, laughter came from the field. Mr. Benyon was laughing at Fenning, whose wicket he'd just shattered. I turned to Mr. Sapsworth: "You're next."

"Me!" He turned pale. "Mr. Trentham, I can't."

"Nonsense! You can't let a silly ghost story scare you in broad daylight."

He looked more inclined to run than bat, but then a voice rang out across the field: "Bob Sapsworth! Come and be shaved!"

I was startled myself. The words were apt. On Mr. Sapsworth, the effect was dramatic. Without a word, he shuffled to the wicket, looking like a man in mortal terror.

I moved to the scoring tent, where the mood had changed drastically. The jovial faces were now like mourners at a funeral. Fenning stumbled in, wiping an eye.

"I never saw such bowling! It's not fair!"

"What's unfair?" I asked.

"It comes so fast. I never saw the ball before my wickets were down."

I smiled, but not the others. Mr. Hedges voiced the general opinion: "You'll never see such bowling again. Because it's a ghost bowling, not a man!"

Fenning's mouth hung open: "A ghost!" He repeated.

"A ghost," confirmed Mr. Hedges.

I protested: "Mr. Hedges, you're frightening the lad. A man of your age shouldn't talk such nonsense."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 7 / 11
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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Mr. Hedges looked at me sharply: "If he's not a ghost, what happened to his clothes?" He pointed. "He took off his hat, coat, and scarf, laid them on the grass. No one touched them, but they're gone! We saw them vanish. If he's not a ghost, where are they?"

I looked, and indeed the garments were gone. I might have dismissed it as a natural trick, had not the next thing occurred.

Mr. Benyon was about to bowl to Mr. Sapsworth. He removed his coat, revealing a waistcoat that matched. He folded it neatly and laid it on the ground. The moment it touched the grass, it disappeared before everyone's eyes. I was taken aback.

After that, I could excuse Sapsworth's nervousness. Benyon seemed to enjoy it, calling out jovially: "Now, Bob, prepare to be shaved!"

The ball flew like lightning. Sapsworth yelled as it struck him. The second ball hit the same spot. Anyone else would have dodged, but Sapsworth stood right in its path. The third, fourth, and fifth balls found the same billet. The sixth knocked his bat from his hands and sent all three stumps flying.

"I said I'd shave you, Bobby!" shouted Benyon as Sapsworth limped away.

"Next man in," I called.

"I'm not going in," came the reply.

Before I could ask why, Benyon called out: "Jack Hawthorn! I'm waiting for you." How he knew Hawthorn was next, I can't say. Hawthorn, a huge fellow six feet tall, rose like a child and went to the wicket without pads, picking up the bat Sapsworth had left.

Sapsworth staggered into the tent, muttering, "It's a ghost."

I felt he was a coward and said so: "Ghost or not, I'd have tried to hit the ball rather than let him pummel me. You said you were an all-rounder."

The man was in pain, but his cowardice annoyed me more. The whole situation was absurd.

Benyon's bowling was superb, combining pace and break better than anyone I'd seen.

But what threatened our team was the belief that he was a ghost. An idea struck me: I'd ask him directly, in front of everyone, if he was a ghost. If his answer convinced them, fine.

As he was about to bowl again, I walked out to the wicket. "Excuse me, Mr. Benyon, may I speak with you?"

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 8 / 11
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
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He turned. I noticed his appearance was eerie—like a corpse, an unhealthy one. His ridiculous check suit made it worse. I gathered my courage and asked, "Will you forgive me for asking, but are you a ghost?"

He stared at me, and I couldn't look away. Then he shouted, "I am!"

Of course that answer was absurd. But at that moment, I felt a cold shiver down my spine. I struggled to speak, finally stammering, "Oh, you—you are a ghost! I—I thought so. Thanks."

How I got back to the tent, I don't know. After that display of cowardice, disaster followed.

My own wicket had fallen for thirteen runs. The second and third fell without adding to the score. Hawthorn was fourth man in, and Benyon's answer seemed to seal his fate. I don't know exactly what happened, but he was out by the end of the over. In all, nine wickets fell without a single run added. That must be some kind of record.

Benyon seemed to bear a grudge against his hometown, and he paid it in full. Although he aimed at the wickets, he hit the batsmen first. They seemed to get in the way of the ball. Each over, the ball hit each batsman five times and the wicket once. At the end of each over, a man limped back to the tent.

One case was especially hard: Mr. Hedges, the last man. When his turn came with the score still at thirteen, he clung to his seat.

"Won't someone go in for me?" he begged. "I'm no cricketer." He turned to Sapsworth: "Bob, you asked me to play, promised I'd get a lunch from the captain, but you said nothing about being bowled at by a ghost!"

Sapsworth was silent. Hedges went on, "I shan't go in. Nothing will make me face a ghost." He repeated his resolve as each ball hit the ninth batsman, who cried out each time. "I won't! I won't! I won't!"

When the over ended and the ninth wicket fell, Hedges's time had come. He clutched his seat in despair.

"Bill Hedges!" shouted Benyon. No reply. "Bill Hedges, have I got to come and fetch you?"

At that threat, the old man rose and waddled to the wicket.

"I'm coming, Tom. I'm no cricketer. Don't be too hard. If you must hit me, aim behind."

"Where's your bat?" asked Benyon. Hedges had left it.

"My bat? I don't need one. You can hit me fine without it."

"Go get your bat!"

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 9 / 11
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
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Hedges did, holding it gingerly as if it might burn him.

"Bill Hedges, do you remember those drinks you bought me the week before I died?"

"No, Tom, I can't say I do."

"You did, at the Crown and Anchor. I said I'd pay you back. I never did. I'll pay you now."

And he paid him five times, hitting him with the ball each time. Hedges bore it like a lamb, then his wicket fell. As he returned, he wiped his brow and said, "I always said I wasn't a cricketer."

---

Our innings ended with a total of thirteen runs. We sat in the tent, dejected, when Benyon came bustling up to remind me of my duties: "Send your men into the field. I'm first man in, and I haven't had a hit in twenty years!"

We looked at each other. One part of his speech gave us comfort: he said he would have to go soon. We took the field, a sorry-looking set of fieldsmen. The Latchmere men slouched toward the tent; some sneaked off the ground entirely, and I never saw them again.

"I can't bowl," whispered Sapsworth as we walked out, having agreed to open the bowling. I too felt reluctant, but Benyon directed us: "Bob, you bowl from one end; Captain, you from the other. Captain, you take first over."

I obeyed without complaint, though it was strange taking orders from the opposition. Our fielding positions were haphazard, with some men overlapping at deep mid-off.

Benyon came in to bat with Barker, the Latchmere captain, who now seemed thoroughly depressed. Benyon had removed his waistcoat, matching his coat and trousers, leaving a bright red flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up. His stance was peculiar: bolt upright, legs together, bat held straight down in front, blade swinging.

I took my time preparing to bowl, but Benyon urged, "Hurry up! I've got to go soon."

I bowled an overhand full pitch that would have been a catch for point if point had been there. But Benyon didn't need him; he hit the ball over the hedge, over the trees, into the sky, and out of sight.

"Not a bad little smack to start," he said. "I like your bowling. That's a boundary, I suppose. Put down Tom Benyon six!" He turned to me. "No need to look for that ball. I've got another in my pocket."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 10 / 11
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
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He reached into his trousers pocket. Those tight garments seemed unlikely to hold a ball, but he pulled one out and tossed it to me.

My second ball was similar but wide to leg. Benyon hit it to long-leg for another six. "Put down another six! I like your bowling. Have another ball." He produced another from the same pocket.

I was amazed, but as Horatio said, there are more things in heaven and earth. My third ball was straighter, but he drove it over my head with force. Again he produced another ball.

My fourth ball was a swipe to square-leg. "I do like a ball I can get a smack at," he said, pulling out a fourth ball from that miraculous pocket.

My fifth ball disappeared, and I wished his love of swiping was less. The sixth, however, he merely "snicked," sending it to deep mid-off where it stunned Mr. Hawthorn and Mr. Hedges, who made no attempt to return it.

"Run it out!" cried Benyon. He and Barker ran four, then two more, and still the ball wasn't returned. Benyon urged them on, and when it finally came back, they had run eleven. Forty-one runs off my first over was demoralizing. Benyon managed to get to the other end for Sapsworth's bowling.

"Now, Bob, let's see what you've got!" he said.

He hit Sapsworth's balls to all parts of the ground, each one disappearing, and he produced a new ball from his pocket each time. I felt I was in a dream, like Alice in Wonderland.

Time went on. We bowled over after over, and Benyon amassed an astronomical score, far exceeding anything W.G. ever did. He lost countless balls but always produced new ones.

He also made sure to run Barker, who did no hitting but was forced to run extraordinary numbers of runs. Benyon seemed unaffected, but Barker grew more exhausted.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-a5048e2ef12842198b80c4392ec8428f
# book_title: A Substitute
# chapter_id: 1-a-substitute
# chapter_title: A Substitute
# book_page: 11 / 11
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
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He had promised to leave soon, but his idea of soon was different from ours. We bowled for what seemed like hours, until I felt I would collapse. Gradually, the spectators dwindled from many to a handful, then to none. Not only spectators but also cricketers disappeared. The Latchmere team had all gone—they'd had enough of Benyon or his ghost. Some of our own team also slipped away; I caught young Fenning scrambling through the hedge but couldn't stop him. I wished I could follow.

The situation became serious. Only Hawthorn, Hedges, Sapsworth, and I remained of our team. We were fools to stay, but we kept bowling and fielding until we were soaked with sweat.

Mr. Benyon kept remarking, "I do like your bowling, mister."

Eventually, I saw Hawthorn vanish into the hedge. Hedges got stuck trying to climb through. It was the last ball of Sapsworth's over, and Benyon hit it to leg, running thirteen. He forced Barker to run too, and after the thirteenth run, Barker simply dropped his bat and bolted off the field as if Satan chased him. Benyon called after him, but he didn't stop. The match was now a game of single wicket.

To make matters worse, Sapsworth took his leave, disappearing through the hedge. I was alone, facing Benyon.

"I do like your bowling," he said as he dispatched my first ball. "I've got another in my pocket." He produced one from that same pocket, the second thousand, it seemed.

He hit my second ball out of sight, then my third, and on the next, the ball came back to me and knocked me flat.

When I recovered my senses and looked up, no one was in sight. I was alone in the field. The opposite wicket was deserted, a bat lay on the ground—and Mr. Benyon had gone.