Three years ago at the Oval, I remember, Sam Woods was watching a match, and a certain individual in an immaculate sweater, brilliantly decorated in front with letters a foot long, sauntered on to the field. It was evidently a part of the game with which he had no sympathy. Sam glared down on him, and in his terse phraseology commenced— “Who’s that feller?” Some one mentioned a name. “I know,” says Sam. “I know the silly bloomer.... He was fielding in the country—I was playing—up she went in the air—he was fast asleep—catch her, you fool!—and he caught her—_plumb on the nut_.” And this genial cricketer was pleased for the rest of the day at the mere recollection. At last we have arrived, through devious paths, at our three great divisions. Many bowlers whom I class as slow may in reality consider themselves to be medium; many medium may prefer to be known as fast; and perhaps there may be a very few fast bowlers who prefer the description of medium—but I doubt it. First and foremost we must place the Old Man, or Old ‘Un, as we so endearingly like to speak of him. There can be but few people in this country who do not know this full-bearded, full-bodied figure of a man—the few short shuffling strides, the arm a little above the shoulder, the right hand a shade in front of him, the curious rotary action before delivery, _and the wonderful length_. The hand is large and the ball well concealed, and as you face him, for he stands full fronted to you, it seems to leave by the back door, as it were, that is, over the knuckle of the little finger. I have played with him many times, but he does not seem to me to do very much (of course I am speaking of a good wicket), but some come a little higher, others a little lower, some a little faster, some slower; on the middle leg is his favourite spot—two or three off the leg stick with a square deep who is not asleep, then a straighter one with a “bit of top on it”—the batsman tries to push to leg—there is a somewhat excited _’s that?_ and the would-be run-getter is sauntering pavilionwards. Certainly of all the slow bowlers I have met he is the most successful against _new faces_, whether they are young or old. He generally bowls them neck and crop, or else they are l.b.w., and it makes very little difference if the batsman is an Australian wonder, or a boy in a village school: they come in and they go out, and they can’t understand it—it looks so extremely harmless. They forget the master-hand, with the master-mind to work it; they forget the wonderful perseverance! If you can’t get them out over the wicket, try round; if you can’t succeed this end, have a rest and try the other.