Duffer; he is your true enthusiast. When I go to Lord's on a summer
day, which of my contemporaries do I meet there? Not the men who
played for the University, not the KENNYS and MITCHELLS and BUTLERS,
but the surviving members of College Second Elevens in the old days of
Cowley Marsh, when every man brought his own bottle of Oxford wine for
luncheon. These are the veterans who contribute most to the crowd of
lookers-on. They never were of any use as players, but their hearts
were in the game, and from the game they will never be divorced. It is
an ill thing for an outsider to drop a remark about Cricket among us,
at about eleven o'clock in a country house smoking-room. After that
the time flies in a paradise of reminiscences, till about 4 A.M. or
some such "wee, short hour ayont the Twal'," if one may quote BURNS
without being insulted by all the numerous and capable wits of
Glasgow. Why is it that the Duffer keeps up his interest in Cricket,
while the good players cease to care much about it? Perhaps _their_
interest was selfish; his is purely ideal, and consequently immortal.
To him Cricket was ever an unembodied joy of which he could make
nothing palpable; nothing subject to the cold law of averages. Mine
was 0.3.

[Illustration]

My own introduction to Cricket, as to Golf, was peculiarly poignant. I
and my brother, aged more or less about six or seven, were invited to
play by the local Club, and we each received exactly one very slow and
considerate lob. But his lob took him on the eye, and mine, kicking on
a bad wicket, had me on the knee-pan. The subsequent proceedings did
not interest us very much, but there is nothing like entering children
early at a manly pastime.