"Same with me," went on Stott, "I've been trying to learn myself to bowl without my finger"--he held up his mutilated hand--"or left-'anded; but I can't. If I'd started that way.... No! I'm always feeling for that finger as is gone. A second-class bowler I might be in time, not better nor that." "It's early days yet," I ventured, intending encouragement, but Stott frowned and shook his head. "I'm not going to kid myself," he said, "I know. But I'm going to find a youngster and learn 'im. On'y he must be young." "No 'abits, you know," he explained. The next time I met Stott was in November. I ran up against him, literally, one Friday afternoon in Ailesworth. When he recognised me he asked me if I would care to walk out to Stoke-Underhill with him. "I've took a cottage there," he explained, "I'm to be married in a fortnight's time." His circumstances certainly warranted such a venture. The proceeds of matinee and benefit, invested for him by the Committee of the County Club, produced an income of nearly two pounds a week, and in addition to this he had his salary as groundsman. I tendered my congratulations. "Oh! well, as to that, better wait a bit," said Stott. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground. He had the air of a man brooding over some project. "It is a lottery, of course ..." I began, but he interrupted me. "Oh that!" he said, and kicked a stone into the ditch; "take my chances of that. It's the kid I'm thinking on." "The kid?" I repeated, doubtful whether he spoke of his fiancée, or whether his nuptials pointed an act of reparation. "What else 'ud I tie myself up for?" asked Stott. "I must 'ave a kid of my own and learn 'im from his cradle. It's come to that." "Oh! I understand," I said; "teach him to bowl." "Ah!" replied Stott as an affirmative. "Learn 'im to bowl from his cradle; before 'e's got 'abits. When I started I'd never bowled a ball in my life, and by good luck I started right. But I can't find another kid over seven years old in England as ain't never bowled a ball o' some sort and started 'abits. I've tried...." "And you hope with your own boys...?" I said. "Not 'ope, it's a cert;" said Stott. "I'll see no boy of mine touches a ball afore he's fourteen, and then 'e'll learn from me; and learn right. From the first go off." He was silent for a few seconds, and then he broke out in a kind of ecstasy. "My Gawd, 'e'll be a bowler such as 'as never been, never in this world. He'll start where I left orf. He'll...." Words failed him, he fell back on the expletive he had used, repeating it with an awed fervour. "My Gawd!" I had never seen Stott in this mood before. It was a revelation to me of the latent potentialities of the man, the remarkable depth and quality of his ambitions.... VIII