—keep your temper—keep your wicket up."
Founded in 1835 under the title of the Beverley Club, it was renamed by Sir Spencer Ponsonby Fane, who with the late Mr. Lorraine Baldwin and my own uncle, Mr. Chandos Leigh, will be for ever associated with its welfare. The rules are unique, and a trifle whimsical; for example: "Entrance be nothing, and the annual subscription do not exceed the entrance." At the election of a new member, it was enjoined that the candidate should take his stand at the wicket with or without a bat, as the committee may decide. Being a vagrant body, the I Zingari have never boasted a ground of their own, and it is a pity that more serious cricket should have lessened the importance of their chief matches.
Now, having announced that I am going to be desultory, I propose to reel off a batch of anecdotes. The bulk will be anonymous, which is a pity, because individuality always gives point to a tale, but I have no wish to hurt any one's feelings.
Some years ago, at the period known as "when we were boys together," the late Lord Leconfield one summer holidays had a boys' cricket week at Petworth, having teams of Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire youngsters to play. He daily entertained all the teams at dinner, which, by the way, was served on silver plates. Suddenly, in one of those silences which sometimes fall on assembled eaters, a big lad shouted, loud enough to be heard even by the late Lord Leconfield himself, "I do hate eating off these beastly tin plates; in a decent house like this
