We rolled down to the masts among the chimneys on the top of an omnibus.  The driver was eloquent on cricket-matches.  Now, cricket, he said, was fine manly sport; it might kill a man, but it never meant mischief:  foreigners themselves had a bit of an idea that it was the best game in the world, though it was a nice joke to see a foreigner playing at it!  None of them could stand to be bowled at.  Hadn’t stomachs for it; they’d have to train for soldiers first.  On one occasion he had seen a Frenchman looking on at a match.  ’Ball was hit a shooter twixt the slips:  off starts Frenchman, catches it, heaves it up, like his head, half-way to wicket, and all the field set to bawling at him, and sending him, we knew where.  He tripped off:  “You no comprong politeness in dis country.”  Ha! ha!’

To prove the aforesaid Frenchman wrong, we nodded to the driver’s laughter at his exquisite imitation.

He informed us that he had backed the Surrey Eleven last year, owing to the report of a gentleman-bowler, who had done things in the way of tumbling wickets to tickle the ears of cricketers.  Gentlemen-batters were common:  gentlemen-bowlers were quite another dish.  Saddlebank was the gentleman’s name.

‘Old Nandrew Saddle?’ Temple called to me, and we smiled at the supposition of Saddlebank’s fame, neither of us, from what we had known of his bowling, doubting that he deserved it.

‘Acquainted with him, gentlemen?’ the driver inquired, touching his hat.  ’Well, and I ask why don’t more gentlemen take to cricket? ’stead of horses all round the year!  Now, there’s my notion of happiness,’ said the man condemned to inactivity, in the perpetual act of motion; ’cricket in cricket season!  It comprises—­count:  lots o’ running; and that’s good:  just enough o’ taking it easy; that’s good:  a appetite for your dinner, and your ale or your Port, as may be the case; good, number three.  Add on a tired pipe after dark, and a sound sleep to follow, and you say good morning to the doctor and the parson; for you’re in health body and soul, and ne’er a parson ‘ll make a better Christian of ye, that I’ll swear.’

As if anxious not to pervert us, he concluded:  ’That’s what I think, gentlemen.’

Temple and I talked of the ancient raptures of a first of May cricketing-day on a sunny green meadow, with an ocean of a day before us, and well-braced spirits for the match.  I had the vision of a matronly, but not much altered Janet, mounted on horseback, to witness the performance of some favourite Eleven of youngsters with her connoisseur’s eye; and then the model of an English lady, wife, and mother, waving adieu to the field and cantering home to entertain her husband’s guests.  Her husband!

Temple was aware of my grief, but saw no remedy.  I knew that in his heart he thought me justly punished, though he loved me.