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ALF-A-DOZEN pipes were smoking fiercely, and the atmosphere of the bar parlour of the Cricketer’s Arms had begun to resemble that of a West Riding cricket ground when the visiting side goes in first and the place is conveniently situated as regards factory chimneys. Half-a-dozen cricketers were in extremely bad tempers, for this morning they all had taken the unprecedented course of going on strike. The most important county match of the season was to take place next day, and, lo and behold! six of the most talented professionals had struck work. No wonder that they smoked and grumbled, and sipped beer more immoderately than usual.

“We’ve landed that blessed committee in a very tight hole,” observed Tim Twister, a well-groomed smart-looking young man, the leader of the movement. “Our friend, the hon. sec.’s, fairly stuck up.”

“Ay, Tim, lad,” said Bails, the ponderous wicket-keeper, approvingly, “you’ve got fairly among their sticks this time.”

“It’s better nor the hat-trick, Tim,” remarked the stonewaller, who was known as Daddy Longlegs. “You’ve bowled ’em all out in a bunch.”

At this moment the door of the bar parlour opened, and there entered an alert, healthy elderly man, who was greeted with loud applause and cries of “Old Davie.”

Davie was the groundsman of the County Club, and had been sent by the committee, who were sitting in solemn conclave in the pavilion at the cricket ground across the way, to have a quiet talk with the mutinous players.

“Now what are you young chaps up to?” inquired Davie, diplomatically, after he had taken a pull at the pewter mug that was at once set before him.

“We’re extremely dissatisfied,” replied Tim Twister, who was usually the chief spokesman.

“Well, I’ll allow the bowlers have a right to grumble,” continued Davie, cynically, “cos they is hardworked! But as for the batters—why two or three overs always settles them! They’re not put upon.”

“I’t ain’t work we complain of, Davie,” interrupted Tim, with a frown. “It’s pay.”

“We pro.’s isn’t treated fair, Davie,” observed the wicket-keeper playfully. “We’re hartists, we are, and we should be tret as sich.” And he favoured the groundsman with a substantial and conciliatory grin.

“Hartist, are you?” said Davie. “You may ha’ been in the bill-sticking line, but that’s as near the picture trade as you’ve ever come, my boy.”

“Why, talking o’ pictures,” broke in Daddy Longlegs, who was a vain person, “there’s been a picture of me three times in the Evenin’ Noos this season. That shows I’m a public man!”

“There’ll be a picture o’ you, Daddy, in the Police Gazette one o’ these days,” said Davie, sorrowfully. “Your boots is sizes too small for you.”

“Well, I say a pro.’s a public man, and he should have the pay of one,” Daddy Longlegs returned sulkily.