The driver was eloquent on cricket-matches. Now, cricket, he said, was
fine manly sport; it might kill a man, but it never meant mischief:
foreigners themselves had a bit of an idea that it was the best game in
the world, though it was a nice joke to see a foreigner playing at it!
None of them could stand to be bowled at. Hadn't stomachs for it; they'd
have to train for soldiers first. On one occasion he had seen a
Frenchman looking on at a match. 'Ball was hit a shooter twixt the
slips: off starts Frenchman, catches it, heaves it up, like his head,
half-way to wicket, and all the field set to bawling at him, and sending
him, we knew where. He tripped off: "You no comprong politeness in dis
country." Ha! ha!'

To prove the aforesaid Frenchman wrong, we nodded to the driver's
laughter at his exquisite imitation.

He informed us that he had backed the Surrey Eleven last year, owing to
the report of a gentleman-bowler, who had done things in the way of
tumbling wickets to tickle the ears of cricketers. Gentlemen-batters
were common: gentlemen-bowlers were quite another dish. Saddlebank was
the gentleman's name.

'Old Nandrew Saddle?' Temple called to me, and we smiled at the
supposition of Saddlebank's fame, neither of us, from what we had known
of his bowling, doubting that he deserved it.

'Acquainted with him, gentlemen?' the driver inquired, touching his hat.
'Well, and I ask why don't more gentlemen take to cricket? 'stead of
horses all round the year! Now, there's my notion of happiness,' said
the man condemned to inactivity, in the perpetual act of motion; 'cricket
in cricket season! It comprises--count: lots o' running; and that's