Second A.B. Oh, the Grand Old 'Un's in great form this season. Like 'tother W.G., who's just back from the Antipodes and, at forty-four, can knock up his sixty-three in sixty-five minutes. There he goes again, clean over all the "scouts"!
First A.B. Oh! he gives 'em plenty to do, "in the country." Keeps 'em on the shift, eh?
Second A.B. Bless you, yes. Why a hit like that, run out, would be worth seven to his side-in a match!
First A.B. (knowingly). Ah, but I notice that in a match these tremendous swipes don't always come off, don'tcher-know. I've seen some tremendous sloggers at the nets make a wonderful poor show when between wickets with a watchful "field" round 'em.
Second A.B. (with candour). Ah, quite so, of course. Everyone must have noticed that. With a demon bowler in front of yer sending 'em down like hundred-tonners, and a blarmed cat of a wicket-keeper on the grab just at your back, not to mention a pouncer at point, it puzzles the best of them to get 'em away, though "in a position of greater freedom and less responsibility," practising at the nets, to wit, with only the ground-bowler and a few scouts fielding, they may punish 'em properly.
First A.B. Ah, well, one must allow that the Champion plays the game right away all the time.
Second A B. Yea. Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety. Wonderful, all the same, what perversely bad hits he will persist in making, at times. Does things now and again you'd think a school-girl with a bat would be ashamed of.
First A.B. Ah, by the way, what do you think of these here new-fangled Lady-Cricketers?
Second A.B. (significantly). Ask the Old 'Un what he thinks of 'em.
First A.B. Ah! can't abide 'em, can he? And yet he likes the Ladies to look on and applaud, and even to field for him at times.