"I am not at all sure," I said, "that chess is not a finer game even than solitaire." "It's a finer game than cricket," said Bolton, putting his bishop back in the slips again. "No," said the editor. "Cricket is the finest game in the world. For why? I will tell you." "Thanks to the glorious uncertainty of our national pastime," began the journalist, from his next Monday's article. "No, thanks to the fact that it is a game in which one can produce the maximum of effect with the minimum of skill. Take my own case. I am not a batsman, I shall never make ten runs in an innings, yet how few people realise that! I go in first wicket down, wearing my M.C.C. cap. Having taken guard with the help of a bail, I adopt Palairet's stance at the wicket. Then the bowler delivers: either to the off, to leg, or straight. If it is to the off, I shoulder my bat and sneer at it. If it is to leg, I swing at it. I have a beautiful swing, which is alone worth the money. Probably I miss, but the bowler fully understands that it is because I have not yet got the pace of the wicket. Sooner or later he sends down a straight one, whereupon I proceed to glide it to leg. You will see the stroke in Beldam's book. Of course, I miss the ball, and am given out l.b.w. Then the look of astonishment that passes over my face, the bewildered inquiry of the wicket-keeper, and finally the shrug of good-humoured resignation as I walk from the crease! Nine times out of ten square-leg asks the umpire what county I play for. That is cricket." "Quite so," I said, when he had finished. "There's only one flaw in it. That is that quite possibly you may have to go in last to-day. You'll have to think of some other plan. Also on this wicket the ball always goes well over your head. You couldn't be l.b.w. if you tried." "Oh, but I do try." "Yes. Well, you'll find it difficult." The editor sighed. "Then I shall have to retire hurt," he said. Bolton chuckled to himself. "One never retires hurt at chess," he said, as he huffed the editor's king. "Though once," he added proudly, "I sprained my hand, and had to make all my moves with the left one. Check." The editor yawned, and looked out of the window. "Are we nearly there?" he asked. IV. IN THE FIELD It is, I consider, the duty of a captain to consult the wishes of his team now and then, particularly when he is in command of such a heterogeneous collection of the professions as I was. I was watching a match at the Oval once, and at the end of an over Lees went up to Dalmeny, and had a few words with him. Probably, I thought, he is telling him a good story that he heard at lunch; or, maybe, he is asking for the latest gossip from the Lobby. My neighbour, however, held other views. "There," he said, "there's ole Walter Lees asking to be took off." "Surely not," I answered. "Dalmeny had a telegram just now, and Lees is asking if it's the three-thirty winner." Lees then began to bowl again.