“We have it from a reliable source,” says the Athletic News, “that the authorities at Old Trafford are making strenuous efforts to induce Mr. T. S. M. Trentham, this year’s captain at Harrow, and the youngest member of the famous brotherhood whose name he bears, to qualify for Lancashire. As doubtless our readers are aware, the authorities at Old Trafford have always been justly celebrated for their generous appreciation and encouragement of the cricketing talent of other counties, and in the case of young Mr. Trentham there is something peculiarly appropriate in the benevolence of their present attitude, as it is rumoured that Mr. Trentham once had an aunt who lived near Bootle.”
I could read no more. The Sportsman dropped from my unheeding hands, and I had just begun to whistle the opening bars of the “Dead March,” when two brown boots and the lower parts of a pair of grey flannel trousers wriggled from the lawn through the open window. They were surmounted two seconds later by a straw hat, a straw-coloured moustache, and an aquiline nose, which I identified as belonging to the General Nuisance. He had an exquisitely neat brown paper parcel under his arm, and a smile of fifty candle-power illuminating his classic features. I was horrified to see it.
“You’re early this morning,” I said resignedly. “It wants a quarter to eight yet. Have some breakfast?”
“Tha-anks,” he drawled, “but I’ve had my milk. I’ve called round to bring you yours.”
As he spoke he removed the string from the parcel in the most leisurely manner and disclosed a pile of carefully folded newspapers with names pencilled on the corners. Having discovered mine, he handed it to me with that air of benevolent condescension that head masters wear on speech day.
“How nice of you!” I said. However, I’m afraid this irony was so delicate that he didn’t feel it.
“My dear fellow, not at all,” he said. “There’s one for everybody. I’m delivering ’em to the whole team, don’t you know.”
Needless to say, he had presented me with an immaculate copy of the Sportsman. I picked up my own discarded sheet from under the table.
“Awf’ly obliged, old chap, but I’ve got one, thank you,” I said, pleasantly.
“That’s lucky,” said he, “you can give one to your friends. Rather pretty reading, isn’t it? Awf’ly decent set, Trenthams, Elphinstone, etcetera.”