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Rh than a man who toils to make a large income out of some business that he hates, in order to be able to spend it upon something he likes. Such men have a divided life, half of which is not life at all in the true sense of the word. A cricketer is a far better exponent of the art of living than many men who are far richer and far more highly esteemed. Perhaps this is the reason why cricketers as a class are so remarkably happy themselves and so extremely pleasant to deal with. There are few worthier fellows in the world than the average professional of the better class. I remember hearing Mr Stoddart say—and I hope he will not mind my repeating it—"Well, I never want to meet three better fellows or more pleasant companions than Tom Richardson, Albert Ward, and Brockwell." This was soon after he returned from his tour in Australia in the winter of 1895-96. It is true he happened to light on three particularly good specimens, but what he said of them is widely applicable among professionals. They are as a class good fellows and pleasant companions. And it would be curious if there was much wrong with the life that produces men who are happy themselves and make others happy too.

At the same time, cricket does not stamp a man with any special peculiarities. On the contrary, as was remarked above, cricketers do not all give the impression of having been turned out of the same mould. There is usually not much difficulty in classing most men one comes across as belonging to this or to that calling. But I think it would puzzle even Sherlock Holmes himself to place an average cricketer correctly if he met him unaccompanied by the tell-tale bag. A cricketer is just a man with a clear eye, bronzed face, and athletic figure. He is usually somewhat lacking in general information, and is sometimes a poor conversationalist upon any but his own subject. He does not read much. On the other hand, he does not talk much about things he does not understand, which is a good trait. He gives the impression of having led a free unconstrained life—he might be, in fact, anything from a trooper in the Rhodesian Horse to a Californian orange-grower. He is simple, frank, and unaffected; a genuine person, with plenty of self-respect, and no desire to seem what he is not: on the whole, not a bad sort of man at all—quite the reverse. So the profession of cricket does not do much harm to those who follow it. My view may be rather too rosy. I may be reading into the cricketer what I would like to see in him, rather than portraying him as he is. I do not think so. Perhaps I may have been singularly fortunate