wright at Bradford. The score-sheet was covered with "Stumped Hunter, b. Rhodes, 0." It was a most catching complaint, and five of us succumbed to it. It attacked us in two distinct varieties. We either played forward and slipped—"Stumped Hunter, b. Rhodes, 0." or we charged gaily up the pitch for home or glory. The result was precisely the same—"Stumped Hunter, b. Rhodes, 0."
But enough of Rhodes. Helped by his two good god-parents, sun and rain, the subject is a painful one to us of the south.
His co-helper in this match, Wainwright, is another bowler to whom the varying conditions of weather, and consequently of wickets, makes a phenomenal difference—perhaps more strikingly pronounced even than to Rhodes.
Harmless enough on a good wicket, on a bad one he could make the ball do what he liked. Many, of course, can do this; but they cannot make it turn with the astonishing rapidity from the pitch that Wainwright could. Slow in its flight, yet on touching the mud it would rush at you—I had almost said bite you—at any rate bowl you as you were playing back for the hang.
And now, my indulgent reader, we will make full sail southwards, with the brave north wind full astern, to the headquarters of the cricketing world, the abode of the all-powerful M.C.C. Here we find a slow bowler; I call him slow, for though bowling every conceivable pace, I always maintain that he is at his best when four or five out of the six sent down
