Three years ago at the Oval, I remember, Sam Woods was watching a match, and a certain individual in an immaculate sweater, brilliantly decorated in front with letters a foot long, sauntered on to the field. It was evidently a part of the game with which he had no sympathy, Sam glared down on him, and in his terse phraseology commenced—
"Who's that feller?"
Some one mentioned a name. "I know," says Sam. "I know the silly bloomer. . . . He was fielding in the country—I was playing—up she went in the air—he was fast asleep—catch her, you fool!—and he caught her—plumb on the nut.'"
And this genial cricketer was pleased for the rest of the day at the mere recollection.
At last we have arrived, through devious paths, at our three great divisions. Many bowlers whom I class as slow may in reality consider themselves to be medium; many medium may prefer to be known as fast; and perhaps there may be a very few fast bowlers who prefer the description of medium—but I doubt it.
First and foremost we must place the Old Man, or Old 'Un, as we so endearingly like to speak of him. There can be but few people in this country who do not know this full-bearded, full-bodied figure of a man—the few short shuffling strides, the arm a little above the shoulder, the right hand a shade in front of him, the curious rotary action before delivery, and the wonderful length.
The hand is large and the ball well concealed, and
