Read Online The Exploits of Engelbrecht by Maurice Richardson - Free Book Online

into a very bad way indeed. In fact when the Id’s talent spotters finally ran him to earth he was in the Weeping Willow Ward of an Asylum for Trees. However, they strapped pads over his roots and tied his Free Foresters’ scarf round his trunk, and he perked up no end; by the time they reached the ground he was playing strokes all round the wicket so lightning fast it looked as if every one of his branches was a bat. All we needed was someone to stay in with him and stonewall while he scored.
    The innings opened like a dream. The Id decided to waste no time and sent in the Willow King with the Marquis de Sade to keep him company. We had expected W. G. might appeal, but when he saw the God of Cricket in person he doffed his cap in homage, unwound his MCC scarf, “the oriflamme of English Cricket”, as C.B. Fry once called it, and hung it from a convenient branch. When the applause had subsided the W.K. took guard. The umpire shouted play. The door of the asbestos oven swung open and with a puff of smoke and a blast of flame the Demon Bowler roared out on his scorching run.
    The ease with which that old tree opened his shoulders and drove the first five balls out of the ground and tapped the sixth towards cover point for a single became positively monotonous, especially when he had repeated the process for a few hundred overs.
    The score stood at 333,333 for 0 when disaster overtook us. De Sade tripped over a sylph at midwicket and was stumped before he could get back to his crease. In the next over the Demon Bowler took 6 wickets for no runs. Clearly, one more mishap like this would be our undoing. It was not long in coming. Salvador Dali was the next man in, but when at the end of another triumphant over the Willow King snicked his single, it was found that he had taken root in the ground and could not leave his crease. “ Atras!” he shouted courteously in Spanish, and waved Dali back to his crease. The first ball of the Demon Bowler’s next over splintered the Catalan sportsman’s chest of drawers as if it had been matchwood. We afterwards discovered it was matchwood.
    333,363 for 7 and the D.B. had five balls in which to take three wickets. He went through Chippy de Zoete, put in late to stiffen the tail, and Charlie Wapentake, like an eel through milk.
    333,363 for 9; all the hours on the clock to play and the last man in. Reeling from the smite of his dynamic captain’s hand on his shoulder, the dwarf Engelbrecht stumbled out of the pavilion and made his way towards his wicket, which towered above him like the pillars of some vast monument. Testily he took guard and settled into his crease like a flea in a crack.
    Wham! The D.B. sent down a perfect length express dead on the middle stump. Casting himself into the air like a soul waltzing in hell, the dwarf just managed to reach it with the tip of his bat, and deflect it over the wicket-keeper’s head. By way of celebration the W.K. burst into bud.
    Three more balls to go. The sun was blazing down, but the Willow King stretched out his leaves to make shade for the valiant dwarf. Again the Demon Bowler let fly with all the vice of his sinewy black arm. And once again the dwarf deflected the spheroid.
    After that it was plain sailing. Myth and Dwarf were all set for the finest last wicket stand in the history of the game. Seasons flew by. Our total had reached an astronomical figure, and the Id was trying to summon up courage enough to declare, when a very old man with a scythe and an hour-glass came wandering towards the pitch.
    “I’ve come to put a stop to all this,” he said in a creaking, leathery voice. Lifting his scythe for a back stroke he glided forward towards the pitch. There was a flutter and a scurry from the MCC. Then we saw that W.G. had gone down on his knees in front of the Willow King, edging right up close to his trunk. The Willow King put down a leafy branch and next moment there was nothing to be seen except the tree, and twenty-two yards