There was, in fact, something ‘wrong’ about these boys themselves. And this something ‘wrong’ derived from the fact that there was something much too ‘right’ about them.

To one accustomed to the lean, lanky, pimpled, and somewhat smutty appearance of the average public-school boy in England, there was an air of sunburned masculinity about each of these boys I was now looking at—of handsome muscular earnestness, of lissom gracefulness, of blue-eyed burning idealism, of manly fortitude, of disciplined (above all, disciplined) perfection, which simply took one’s breath away. Gazing intently at the game, with their eager profiles presented to me, they seemed a set of young dreaming Raleighs. And indeed, it was clear enough that, in looking at the game, they were seeing something more than a mere game—they were looking into their own future, imbibing lessons of sportsmanship, self-sacrifice, and courage which would certainly serve them in good stead in the battle of life ahead.

A thrill ran through me as it occurred to me that I had, perhaps, alighted upon a world of ideal creatures, of gods—or demi-gods at last. I did not know then what I found out later, that in Moribundia this perfection of spiritual and physical demeanour was confined exclusively to public-school boys or ex-public-school boys—to a race, or caste, known in a general way as the Akkup Bihas5—and that each other caste, without necessarily being considered lower in grade, had a completely different set of characteristics, sometimes very much the opposite of perfect, and exaggerated upon lines of its own.

As I drew nearer to the pavilion I began to look at the adults, who were either seated on the benches, or standing in little groups around. I did not care to get too close to them, but I was at once struck by the immaculateness of their clothes and their figures—all of which (those of the women and men alike) were tall and willowy, to a remarkable, almost fantastic degree. That this was a fixed peculiarity of the adult Akkup Bihas, by which he might be instantly recognized from a good distance off, I did not of course then know—any more than I knew that there was another class, the Gnikrow class, which was characterized by a somewhat detestable shortness and round-shouldered squatness. This well-defined physical distinction between classes, and even professions, was one of the features of Moribundia which made things very simple in some respects for the newcomer. For instance, whereas an unpleasantly corpulent member of the class of the Akkup Bihas was a thing practically inconceivable in this strange land, the idea of a thin Reknab, or a thin Rekamkoob, or a thin Reetiforp, was equally out of the question.

But I am anticipating. Choosing a spot on the grass as near to the pavilion as I dared, I sat down and began to look at the game itself. It was at once evident that the tenseness and quietness, the breathless hush6 prevailing everywhere, was due to the fact that a climactic and crucial moment had been reached. The Scoreboard showed that the other side had totalled 120, and that the side now batting had produced 111 runs for 8 wickets. Ten more runs to make and two wickets to fall!—in schoolboy cricket about as thrilling a situation as you could desire.

For the next five minutes or so I watched the game with rapt attention. In three overs no further run was scored, and yet the pair at the wicket seemed to be holding their own. This in itself (although I know very little about cricket) seemed to me something of a feat, as the pitch was bumping fiercely, and the light of the declining sun had a blinding quality which I should imagine must have made the ball very hard to see.

Hearing a noise behind me, I turned my head and saw near to me a boy of from twelve to fourteen years of age, wearing white flannels and putting on cricket-pads. It was at once evident to me that he was the last man in, and that when the next wicket fell the game would depend upon him.

As I looked at this boy, admiring his extreme good looks, and the calm, determined expression on his face, I saw, approaching him from behind, another boy, older, taller and of an even more noble appearance.

There followed a curious incident. The older boy, coming up unnoticed from behind until he was within close range, suddenly raised his hand and smote the other on the shoulders with a smack so violent and resounding that I half expected to see its recipient fall to the ground.

Instead of this, however, and instead of resenting this assault from the back in any way, the younger boy turned, with that peculiar upright grace of manner which showed in every movement made by these young super-men, and faced his Captain (for the Captain of the team it obviously was) with a look of disciplined expectancy and manly adoration astonishing in its intensity.

What followed was even more curious still. For a moment or two there was a silence in which they glared, half-hypnotically, into each other’s eyes. Then the Captain spoke.

“Play up,” he said, in a ringing, measured, almost savagely emphatic tone. “Play up!—and play the game!”

He then walked immediately away with the slightly jaunty air of a man by no means displeased at having been able to express his requirements in so precise a manner.

I must confess that this little episode, which, I was soon to learn, was entirely in keeping with the whole strange atmosphere and standards of behaviour of Moribundia, filled me at the time with something like apprehension. I began to suspect, in fact, that I was in the society of people not very far removed from lunatics. However, my attention was diverted at that moment by a kind of whoop and murmur all around the ground, and looking out again at the field I saw that another wicket had fallen—the ninth. Now, indeed, it was up to the last man if the game was to be saved!

Full of excitement myself, I looked eagerly at the face of the boy whose shoulder had been hit so hard, and upon whom so much now depended. I can truthfully say that I have never seen such a wonderful expression on any boy’s face. It amazed me that a mere game, a mere school cricket match, could evoke so brave and lovely a gleam of selflessness and determination. I stress the selflessness, for it was obviously not for the thought of any fame he might win that season amongst his school-fellows, nor was it for any hope of getting a permanent place in the first eleven and so having the privilege of wearing a blazer (a curious ribboned affair—rather exotic, I thought) like his Captain’s—that this boy meant to go in and win. No, it was because his Captain had hit him upon the shoulder and told him to play up, and to play the game.

At that moment of impact, so strong had been the hypnotic force which I had felt flowing from the Captain, through the Captain’s hand, into the boy’s shoulder, and so on into the boy, that to me it was an almost foregone conclusion that he would succeed now in making the ten runs required. And I was proved right. After leaving two balls on the off-side severely alone, he hit a four off the last ball of the over; there was a tense maiden over at the other end; and then, having played forward to two balls cautiously and with a very straight bat (I noticed, by the way, that these youngsters had been taught to hold their bats and play every stroke with a positively Prussian straightness which I could not help feeling was in some measure cramping their style), our friend hit a glorious six clean over the pavilion, the heads of the parents and the masters, and the game was over.

A storm of applause and cheering broke out on all sides, the players came in, and a thing happened which I have never actually seen happen in any English public-school, or in any school at all for that matter—the boy, now the hero of the match, was lifted high upon the shoulders of his friends, and amidst shouts and cheers and the singing of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ carried back in triumph all the way to the school buildings.

In concluding this chapter, this narration of my first adventure, if so it may be called, in a new world, I cannot resist the temptation to say something about a remarkable poem which—after I had been some months in Moribundia and had settled down to a study of its literature—I came across quite by accident in a popular anthology out there (or should I say up there?) bearing the title of Smeop Fo Yadot.

This poem was by one of Moribundia’s most famous and most dearly cherished authors, Yrneh Tlobwen, but the effect it had upon me was caused not so much by its authorship or merits, as by the chord of memory it suddenly and almost alarmingly struck in me as I read it. The whole cricket match, and the whole scene, was described in this poem almost exactly as I had seen it.