r the Oval as if all these
thousands were diverted from honest practice of the game to the ignoble
occupation of looking on; whereas two out of three of them, were this
spectacle not provided, would far more likely be attending a horse-race,
or betting in clubs and public-houses. The bricklayer, the stockbroker,
the archdeacon, by going to see Lockwood bowl, depopulate no village
green. You judge these persons by yourself, and tell yourself
reproachfully that but for this attraction _you_, John Verinder, would be
creditably perspiring at a practice-net in Tooting or Dulwich; whereas,
the truth is--"

"Why are you hesitating?"

"Because it is not a very pleasant thing to say. But the truth is, your
heart and your conscience in this matter of athletics are a little younger
than your body."

"You mean that I am getting on for middle age."

"I mean that, though you talk of it, you will never subscribe to that
suburban club. You will marry; you will be made a judge: you will attend
cricket matches, and watch from the pavilion while your son takes block
for his first score against the M.C.C.

"And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
I, with my girls (if I ever have any), will sit on the top of a drag
(if I ever acquire one) and teach them at what to applaud,
While you go a-batting with your boys."

Verinder pulled a wry face, and the Boy smacked him on the back and
exhorted him to "buck up."

"And the round world will go on as before, and the sun will patrol Her
Majesty's dominions, and still where the Union Jack floats he will pass
the wickets pitched and white-flannelled Britons playing for all they are
worth, while men of subject races keep the score-sheet. And still when he
arrives at this island he will look down on green closes and approve what
we all allow to be one of the most absolutely gracious sights on earth--
the ordered and moving regiments of schoolboys at cricket. Grayson,
reach round to that shelf against which your chair is tilted; take down
poor Lefroy's poems, and read us that sonnet of his, 'The Bowler.'"

Grayson found the book and the place, and read:--

"Two minutes' rest till the next man goes in!
The tired arms lie with every sinew slack
On the mown grass. Unbent the supple back,
And elbows apt to make the leather spin
Up the slow bat and round the unwary shin,--
In knavish hands a most unki