CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD.
(By "Hansom Jack.")
No. III.—SPORT—THE OVAL—GOOD OLD W. G.
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!"
