‘Why, haven’t they seen you play?’
‘I’m awfully sorry.’
‘Oh, all right. How do you come to be mixed up with Chigley Heath?’
‘My fiancee lives down there.’
‘I see. Well, so long.’
‘So long.’
‘You’re all right for the Saturday after against Porkley-in-the-Wold, I suppose?’
‘Yes, rather!’
‘Good! So long.’
‘So long.’
And Reginald, replacing the instrument, resumed the oiling of the bat.
Now Westaway happened to be of a romantic and sentimental nature. He was inclined to be stout, and all rather stout men are sentimental. Westaway was the sort of man who keeps old ball-programmes and bundles of letters tied round with lilac ribbon. At country houses, when they lingered on the terrace after dinner to watch the moonlight flooding the quiet garden, it was Westaway and his colleagues who lingered longest. Westaway knew Tennyson’s ‘Maud’ by heart, and could take Browning without gas.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Reginald’s remark about his fiancee living at Chigley Heath should give him food for thought. It appealed to him.
He reflected on it a good deal during the evening, and running across Blagdon, the Hearty Lunchers’ captain, after dinner that night at the Club, he spoke of the matter to him. It so happened that both had dined excellently and were looking on the world with a sort of cosy benevolence. They were in the mood when men give small boys sixpences.
‘I rang up Reggie Humby today,’ said Westaway.
‘One of the best, Reggie,’ said Blagdon. ‘Waiter, coffee and — what’s yours? Coffee for two, a Maraschino, a liqueur brandy, and two of those old-shape Larranagas. Yes, dear old chap, Reggie.’
‘Did you know he was engaged?’
‘I did hear something about it — girl of the name of Belleville or something like that — Melville, that’s it! Charming girl. Fond of poetry and all that, I believe.’
‘She lives at Chigley Heath.’
‘Then Reggie’ll get a chance of seeing her next Saturday.’
‘He tells me he’s promised to play for Chigley Heath against us.’
‘Confound him, the renegade! Still, we needn’t scratch because of that, need we?’
Westaway sucked at his cigar in silence for a while, watching with dreamy eyes the blue smoke as it curled ceilingwards. When he spoke his voice was singularly soft.
‘Do you know, Blagdon,’ he said, sipping his Maraschino with a sort of gentle melancholy, ‘do you know, there is something wonderfully pathetic to me in this business. I see the whole thing so clearly. There was a kind of quiver in poor Reggie’s voice when he said: “I am playing for Chigley Heath, my fiancee lives down there,” which told me more than any words could have done. It is a tragedy in its way, Blagdon. We may smile at it, think it trivial; but it is none the less a tragedy. That warm-hearted, enthusiastic girl, all eagerness to see the man she loves do well. Reggie, poor old Reggie, all on fire to prove to her that her trust in him is not misplaced, and the end — Disillusionment — Disappointment — Unhappiness.’
‘He might be duck not out,’ said the more practical Blagdon.
‘He won’t go in last for Chigley Heath; probably they think a lot of him. He may be their hope. Quite possibly he may go in first.’
‘If Reggie’s mug enough to let himself be shoved in first,’ said Blagdon decidedly, ‘he deserves all he gets. Waiter, two whiskies and soda, large.’
Westaway was in no mood to subscribe to this stony-hearted view.
‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry for Reggie! I’m sorry for the poor old chap, and I’m more than sorry for the girl.’
‘Well, I don’t see what we can do,’ said Blagdon. ‘Not all the soda, thanks. We can hardly be expected to bowl badly just to let Reggie show off before his girl.’
Westaway paused in the act of lighting his cigar, as one smitten with a great thought.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why not, Blagdon? Blagdon, you’ve hit it!’
‘My dear chap!’
‘You have! I tell you, Blagdon, you’ve solved the whole thing. Reggie’s a dashed good sort, one of the very absolute! Why not give him a benefit? Why not let him knock up a few for a change? It’ll be the only chance he’ll ever get of making a decent score. You aren’t going to tell me at your time of life that you care whether we beat Chigley Heath or not!’