"I dare say never. For perhaps we may say after Plato, and without irreverence, that the pattern of perfect cricket is laid up somewhere in the skies, and out of man's reach. But between it and ordinary cricket we may set up a copy of perfection, as close as man can make it, and, by little and little, closer every year. This copy will be preserved, and cared for, and advanced, by those professional cricketers against whom the unthinking have so much to say; by these and by the few amateurs who, as time goes on, will be found able to bear the strain. For the search after perfection is no light one, and will admit of no half-hearted service. I say nothing here of material rewards, beyond reminding you that your professional cricketer is poorly paid in comparison with an inferior singer of the music-halls, although he gives twice as much pleasure as your _lion comique_, and of a more innocent kind. But he does more than this. He feeds and guards the flame of art; and when his joints are stiff and his vogue is past, he goes down as groundman and instructor to a public school, and imparts to a young generation what knowledge he can of the high mysteries whose servant he has been: quite like the philosopher in the _Republic_--" "Steady on!" interposed Grayson. "How on earth will the Boy stand up to Briggs' bowling if you put these notions in his head? He'll be awe-struck, and begin to fidget with his right foot." "Oh, fire ahead!" said that cheerful youth. He had possessed himself of Prince Ranjitsinhji's book and coiled himself comfortably into a wicker chair.--"You're only rotting, I know. And you've passed over the most important sentence in the whole book. Listen to this: 'There are very few newspaper readers who do not turn to the cricket column first when the morning journal comes; who do not buy a halfpenny evening paper to find out how many runs W.G. or Bobby Abel has made.' That's the long and short of the matter. Verinder, which do you read first in your morning paper-- the Foreign Intelligence or the Cricket News?" THE SECOND DIALOGUE. 1905. A few days ago--to be precise, on Saturday the 24th of this month--my friend Verinder reminded me of the long-past conversation. We had met by appointment at Paddington to travel down to Windsor for the second day of the Eton and Winchester match, taking with us (or rather, being taken by) a youngster whom we call The Infant. The Infant, who talks little save in the bosom of his family, and even so preserves beneath his talk that fine reticence of judgment which most adorns the age of fifteen, not unfrequently surprises me by his experiments in the art of living. On this occasion, while I was engaged in the booking-office and Verinder in scanning the shelves of Messrs. Smith's bookstall, he had found our train, chosen our compartment, and laid out twopence in four halfpenny papers, which he spread on the cushions by way of reserving our seats.