note-book, and here they are. * * * * * CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD. (_By "Hansom Jack."_) No. III.--SPORT--THE OVAL--GOOD OLD W. G. [Illustration] [Illustration] _Sportsman?_ You bet! Where's the Cabby as isn't? It's born in the bones of us, somehow, I fancy. 'Ighly improper, I s'pose; but life's dull, and it's livened by something a little bit _chancey_. Trying your luck's a temptation to most of us, own it or not. Wy, there's old BILLY BARLOW Got as excited at winning a pig in a raffle as though 'e 'ad broke Monty Carlow. Wot did _'e_ want with a pig? But 'twas pickings. Fifty-to-one chance pulled off; that's wot done it. BILL swears 'is crock once run third in some 'Andicap. Wouldn't 'e like to 'ave owned it, _and_ run it? I 'ave drove cast-offs myself before now, broken-down old bits of blood. Ah! it's rummy How "cracks"--of all sorts--come down in this world. It's fur easier, p'r'aps, to be cocktail or dummy. Still I like "form," and I cannot help backing it, when there's a chance, in a oss most pertikler. But all kinds o' sport cum excitin' to me, down from racin' to crioketin',--_I_'m not a stickler. Few things more nicer, when summer sets in, than a chance fare out Kennington way in the day-time. Bless yer. I've sit by that old Oval hoarding two hours by St. Mark's--ah! and more, during play-time. Perched on my box with a heasy leg cock-over, _I_'m quite at 'ome in my private pavilion, (That's wot _I_ call it), a puffing my briar. Ah! cricket's the sport, after all, for the million. Slap over from 'Arleyford Road to the Gasworks, I sweep the whole field and pay nothink. Wy, bless yer, Young THORNTON once slogged a hoff-ball through my winder as cost me two bob,--and I stood it with pleasure. Seen Grace spank up more than one of 'is centuries, done "while I waited," most kind, like boot-soleing, _I_ know the old "Surrey Ring," and its chaff; and I'm not a bad judge of a bit of good bowling. Lor! when the Mayblossom's out, and GRACE in, with young RICHARDSON pounding away at 'is wicket, JACK isn't eager for no blooming fare as will take 'im away from the pick o' the cricket. Well I remember that blue-gilled old buffer as wanted "King's Cross, and look sharp!" quite stercato As TENOR TIM calls it. 'E weighed sixteen stun, and 'ad got a round face like a blooming tomato. "Engaged, Sir!" I arnswers, quite heasy and haffable. Lor! 'ow 'e fumed, did that angry old josser, Talked to me like a Dutch uncle, 'e did, or some Hemperor snubbin' a fourpenny dosser.