114 
BATS 
BATS 
By Robin Kemp 
It is not of cricket bats that I propose to write. All I 
know of cricket bats is that in my school days I became fixed 
with the ambition to possess a cricket bat. 
After several weeks of careful finance I amassed the sum of 
3s. 6d. and became the proud possessor of a real cricket bat. 
I cannot call to mind doing anything particular with it. 
My only vivid recollection of our boarding school cricket 
field is of a terrible fight between myself and a Sheffield boy. 
I was the smallest boy in the school ; we were both supposed to 
be fielding. We rolled over and over each other, but it finished 
up by the Sheffield boy’s head being plastered over with 
something that took a deal of washing off. Cows were kept 
in that cricket field. The little boy got the best of the fight, 
but the worst of the master’s punishment. 
My three-and-sixpenny bat was soon afterwards swopped 
for something in the natural history line. I think the items 
were some birds’ eggs and a dead barn owl. So ended my 
cricket enthusiasm. 
But it is the flying mammals known as bats which interest 
me far more than cricket bats. 
In the Mendip Hills of Somersetshire are many limestone 
caves. With another ardent spirit of similar tastes to my 
own I used to explore those caves in search of bats. Our ex- 
peditions were fraught with some danger and seldom crowned 
with much success, even from our point of view, for bats are 
elusive creatures. Deep in the caverns we would thrust our 
small hands into cracks and crannies and drag forth to the 
light of day perhaps three or four shivering squeaking skinny 
bats. Great then was our satisfaction. 
In these later days I still find satisfaction, but of a more 
subdued kind, in capturing bats. 
Here in Africa, far up on the remote unpeopled heights 
of Mount Elgon, I find a cave. A great waterfall makes a 
screen in front of the cave. The negroes with me run about 
