I followed them, and arrived at Graves's house while Stott was in the consulting-room. I hocussed the butler and waited with the patients. Among the papers, I came upon the famous caricature of Stott in the current number of _Punch_--the "Stand-and-Deliver" caricature, in which Stott is represented with an arm about ten feet long, and the batsman is looking wildly over his shoulder to square leg, bewildered, with no conception from what direction the ball is coming. Underneath is written "Stott's New Theory--the Ricochet. Real Ginger." While I was laughing over the cartoon, the butler came in and nodded to me. I followed him out of the room and met Findlater and Stott in the hall. Findlater was in a state of profanity. I could not get a sensible word out of him. He was in a white heat of pure rage. The butler, who seemed as anxious as I to learn the verdict, was positively frightened. "Well, for God's sake tell me what Graves said," I protested. Findlater's answer is unprintable, and told me nothing. Stott, however, quite calm and self-possessed, volunteered the information. "Finger's got to come off, sir," he said quietly. "Doctor says if it ain't off to-day or to-morrer, he won't answer for my 'and." This was the news I had to give to England. It was a great coup from the journalistic point of view, but I made up my three columns with a heavy heart, and the congratulations of my editor only sickened me. I had some luck, but I should never have become a good journalist. The operation was performed successfully that evening, and Stott's career was closed. VII I did not see Stott again till August, and then I had a long talk with him on the Ailesworth County Ground, as together we watched the progress of Hampdenshire's defeat by Lancashire. "Oh! I can't learn him _nothing_," he broke out, as Flower was hit to the four corners of the ground, "'alf vollies and long 'ops and then a full pitch--'e's a disgrace." "They've knocked him off his length," I protested. "On a wicket like this ..." Stott shook his head. "I've been trying to learn 'im," he said, "but he can't never learn. 'E's got 'abits what you can't break 'im of." "I suppose it _is_ difficult," I said vaguely. "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.