"Or to wear the pads of Alfred Mynn, which, I believe, were presented to him," said Mr. Punch, cordially.
"Ah! There is another and a bigger Presentation afoot, I understand, thanks largely to a truly Gracious Prince," returned "the monarch of hard hitters." "A knighthood? Well, that's as it may be! Quite deserved indeed; but a 'King' hardly needs the addition of the lesser honour, and indeed W. G. won his spurs on the tented field years and years agone. But a National Testimonial! Faith, the Briton who grudges a subscription to that doesn't deserve to see a sixer run out, or drink a flagon of genuine Boniface at the 'Bat and Ball' on Broad Halfpenny. Only wish we old willow-wielders in the Elysian Fields could contribute each our obolus. By Castor and Pollux, here he comes!"
Broad, bronzed, black-bearded, bear-pawed, bell-mouthed, beaming, in loose-cut flannels and M. C. C. cap, the redoubtable Doctor entered. 'Twas a sight to see those two six-foot-odders shake hands! And to hear the talk of the Cricket Heroes of two generations——
* * *
"Hillo, Mr. Punch! Wake up, old man! Match over!"
It was the veritable voice of the Gloucester Giant. But where was the Pride of Kent? He came like a shadow in summer slumber, and so departed. But William Gilbert was at least satisfactorily solid.
"Where are the Bats of yester year?" murmured the drowsy Sage.
"Oh, still scoring—some of 'em," said the practical smiter, cheerfully. "Keeping up a fair average, too."
"What is yours just now, Doctor?"
"Oh, ask Druce! His tops it, I believe—for the present."