does not seem to care what happens after that. Anybody can have the
ball; he has had his game and is happy.

They talk of introducing cricket into Belgium; I shall certainly try
to be present at the opening game. I am afraid that, until he learns
from experience, the Belgian fielder will stop cricket balls with his
head. That the head is the proper thing with which to play ball
appears to be in his blood. My head is round, he argues, and hard,
just like the ball itself; what part of the human frame more fit and
proper with which to meet and stop a ball.

Golf has not yet caught on, but tennis is firmly established from St.
Petersburg to Bordeaux. The German, with the thoroughness
characteristic of him, is working hard. University professors, stout
majors, rising early in the morning, hire boys and practise back-
handers and half-volleys. But to the Frenchman, as yet, it is a
game. He plays it in a happy, merry fashion, that is shocking to
English eyes.

Your partner's service rather astonishes you. An occasional yard or
so beyond the line happens to anyone, but this man's object appears
to be to break windows. You feel you really must remonstrate, when
the joyous laughter and tumultuous applause of the spectators explain
the puzzle to you. He has not been trying to serve; he has been
trying to hit a man in the next court who is stooping down to tie up
his shoe-lace. With his last ball he has succeeded. He has hit the
man in the small of the back, and has bowled him over. The unanimous
opinion of the surrounding critics is that the ball could not
possibly have been better placed. A Doherty has never won greater
applause from the crowd. Even the man who has been hit appears