(_By "Hansom Jack."_)
No. III.--SPORT--THE OVAL--GOOD OLD W. G.
[Illustration]
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_Sportsman?_ You bet! Where's the Cabby as isn't? It's born in the
bones of us, somehow, I fancy.
'Ighly improper, I s'pose; but life's dull, and it's livened by
something a little bit _chancey_.
Trying your luck's a temptation to most of us, own it or not. Wy,
there's old BILLY BARLOW
Got as excited at winning a pig in a raffle as though 'e 'ad broke
Monty Carlow.
Wot did _'e_ want with a pig? But 'twas pickings. Fifty-to-one
chance pulled off; that's wot done it.
BILL swears 'is crock once run third in some 'Andicap. Wouldn't 'e
like to 'ave owned it, _and_ run it?
I 'ave drove cast-offs myself before now, broken-down old bits of
blood. Ah! it's rummy
How "cracks"--of all sorts--come down in this world. It's fur
easier, p'r'aps, to be cocktail or dummy.
Still I like "form," and I cannot help backing it, when there's a
chance, in a oss most pertikler.
But all kinds o' sport cum excitin' to me, down from racin' to
crioketin',--_I_'m not a stickler.
Few things more nicer, when summer sets in, than a chance fare out
Kennington way in the day-time.
Bless yer. I've sit by that old Oval hoarding two hours by St.
Mark's--ah! and more, during play-time.
Perched on my box with a heasy leg cock-over, _I_'m quite at 'ome
in my private pavilion,
(That's wot _I_ call it), a puffing my briar. Ah! cricket's the
sport, after all, for the million.
Slap over from 'Arleyford Road to the Gasworks, I sweep the whole
field and pay nothink. Wy, bless yer,
Young THORNTON once slogged a hoff-ball through my winder as cost
me two bob,--and I stood it with pleasure.
Seen Grace spank up more than one of 'is centuries, done "while I
waited," most kind, like boot-soleing,
_I_ know the old "Surrey Ring," and its chaff; and I'm not a bad
judge of a bit of good bowling.
Lor! when the Mayblossom's out, and GRACE in, with young
RICHARDSON pounding away at 'is wicket,
JACK isn't eager for no blooming fare as will take 'im away from
the pick o' the cricket.
Well I remember that blue-gilled old buffer as wanted "King's
Cross, and look sharp!" quite stercato
As TENOR TIM calls it. 'E weighed sixteen stun, and 'ad got a
round face like a blooming tomato.
"Engaged, Sir!" I arnswers, quite heasy and haffable. Lor! 'ow 'e
fumed, did that angry old josser,
Talked to me like a Dutch uncle, 'e did, or some Hemperor snubbin'
a fourpenny dosser.
"Engaged, Sir, who by?"--"_Mister Grace_," I sez, artful,
a-tipping the wink on the sly to the Peeler.
"Hordered me sharp for six-thirty, hay, constable?" "Right," _sez_
the Slop. "Better try a four-wheeler.
Afternoon's 'ot, and you're not a light weight, Sir!" Oh lor! 'ow
old crumpet-face slanged me _and_ cricket.
Swore 'e'd ask W. G. if 'twos true, and 'e _wanted to call 'im
away from the wicket!_
"Oh, shut your face and eat snuffers!" I sez; for the bowling just
then was a-bein' fair collared,
And I 'ad missed two or three boundary 'its, all along o' this
"fare," as 'e floundered and hollered.
"_You_ ain't no sportsman!" That finished 'im proper, for 'e was a
deacon, it seemed, out by Stockwell;
And didn't know _Ladas_ from lucky _Sir Visto_, or SHREWSBURY'S
"cut" from the "drive" of young BROCKWELL.
Well, I _do_ get cricket-cracks for my fares. How the crowd
gathers round with their eyes all a-glisten!
And 'ow big I feel; and lor! wot a temptation to look through the
trap for a squint or a listen.
I've often druv Bishops and Premiers and such; but I doubt if the
whole 'Ouse o' Lords took together,
Would match--say, TOM SAYERS, or STODDART or GRACE after one of
their six hours' slambanging the leather.
_Sportsman?_ Oh yes, in my own 'umble way. But I ain't got the
fever like JERRY-GO-NIMBLE!
Poor JERRY! 'E _carn't_ resist no sort of gamble, from Derby or
Oaks to the pea and the thimble.
Mad on it, JERRY is. Bad when it's _that_ way, the mischief in
fack I like sport and a flutter
A bit within bounds; and if t'aint the _best_ biz,--well there,
life, after all, isn't _all_ bread-and-butter!
* * * * *
"Hail, divinest Melancholy!" Decidedly the town of Penarth must adopt
this Miltonian line as its motto. At a meeting of the Public Works
Committee of the District Council, a letter was read in which a
citizen complained bitterly of the frivolous name given to the street
wherein he had his habitation. Gay Street! How too shocking! "The
whole neighbourhood objected to it," and not even the assurance that
the thoroughfare had merely been thus designated out of compliment to
a noble lady of the locality, whose Christian name was "Gay," served
to allay the righteous indignation. Away with the demoralizing title
and the base insinuation borne with it! It was proposed that the
street--being in the vicinity of All Saints--be known for the future
as "Amen Corner," a name suitable to the unswerving sobriety and
solemnity of the city. The proposal was put to the vote and carried
with only a couple of dissentients. Is it possible that there are even
two Penarthians in favour of gaiety?
* * * * *
A MATTER OF "GORSE."--Why will picnicers persist in being so careless?
The _Liverpool Courier_ reports that a party of them succeeded
in setting fire to and destroying some 200 acres of gorse on land
belonging to Lord CHOLMONDELEY and Sir PHILIP GREY EGERTON, at Broxton
Hills, in Cheshire. Not only was the furze completely burnt, but a
"valuable fox cover" was also destroyed. Shades of _Jorrocks, M.F.H._,
and his huntsman, _James Pigg_, the "canny" Novocastrian! Pity, that
these reckless _al fresco_ diners--ready enough with their indignant
resentment if turned off any domain--could not be apprehended, and
summarily dealt with. Sportsmen will echo the words--adapted to the
case in point--in _Handley Cross_, "Cut 'em down, and hang 'em up to
dry!"
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[Illustration: THE CONTRARINESS OF THINGS.
_He._ "THAT LITTLE TRIP OF OURS TO BOULOGNE NEVER CAME OFF, AFTER
ALL!"
_She._ "NOTHING EVER _DOES_ COME OFF--EXCEPT _BUTTONS!_"]
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