in
this sumptuous work, I remarked a similar eloquence in those who
contributed, the other day, to Messrs. Longmans' 'Badminton Library.'
When sportsmen take to writing admirable English, and peers of the realm
to editing it, I hardly see where we poor men of letters can expect to
come in."

"The only cure that I can see," said Verinder, "is for Her Majesty to turn
you into peers of the realm. Some of you suggest this from time to time,
and hitherto it has puzzled me to discover why. But if it would qualify
you to edit the writings of sportsmen--"

"And why not? These books sell: and if aristocracy have its roots in
Commerce, shall not the sale of books count as high as the sale of beer?
The principle has been granted. Already the purveyors of cheap and
wholesome literature are invited to kneel before the Queen, and receive
the _accolade_."

"She must want to cut Tit-bits out of them," put in the Boy.

"Of course we must look at the proportion of profit. Hitherto the profits
of beer and literature have not been comparable; but this wonderful boom
in books of sport may redress the balance. Every one buys them. When you
entered I was glancing through a volume of new verse, but without the
smallest intention of buying it. My purchases, you see, are all sporting
works, including, of course, Prince Ranjitsinhji's _Jubilee Book of
Cricket_."

"Just so," snapped Verinder. "You buy books about sport: we spend an
afternoon in looking on at sport. And so, in one way or another, we
assist at the damnation of the sporting spirit in England."

When Verinder begins in this style an oration is never far distant.
I walked back with the three to the Temple. On our way he hissed and
sputtered like a kettle, and we had scarcely reached his chamber before he
boiled over in real earnest.

"We ought never to have been there! It's well enough for the Boy: he has
been playing steadily all the summer, first for Cambridge and afterwards
for his county. Now he has three days off and is taking his holiday.
But Grayson and I--What the deuce have we to do in that galley?
Far better we joined a club down at Dulwich or Tooting and put in a little
honest play, of a week-end, on our own account. We should be crocks, of
course: our cricketing is done. But we should be honest crocks.
At least it is better to take a back row in the performance, and find out
our own weakness, than pay for a good seat at Lord's or the Oval, and be
Co