“Ay, public man or hartist,” muttered the wicket-keeper. “It’s all t’ same.”
“Why do they treat us different to the amateurs?” demanded Tim Twister, scornfully.
“Why do they treat you different to the scorers?” said Davie. “The poor souls don’t get a quid when you make fifty.”
“Amateurs is paid,” pursued Tim, indignantly.
“So’s policemen,” said Davie—“and generals.”
“Then, why do they call theirsels amateurs?” asked Daddy.
“They don’t—it’s the newspapers that does,” Davie answered. “They call theirsels gentlemen.”
“Well, we mean to have more pay,” growled the crack batsman in the corner. “We pro.’s don’t get no consideration shown us—whatsoever.”
“You’ll all get your reward in t’next world,” remarked Davie, solemnly.
“That’s not much to set store by,” grunted Daddy.
“For such as you, Daddy, maybe not,” said Davie; “ but there’ll not be room for all on us where you’re going to.”
“The Surrey poet earns more nor we,” said Bails, the wicket-keeper.
“They say he got a fiver for his rhyme about my innings v. Notts,” the crack bat remarked enviously.
“We didn’t have poets to flatter us when I was a lad,” observed Davie with a sigh.
“None of you could notch a hundred i’ those days,” retorted the batsman sarcastically.
“Ay, ay; I like to hear you young ’uns swagger about your centuries,” exclaimed Davie contemptuously. “You get all the credit, but who helps you to score your runs?”
“The toffee bowlers,” muttered Bails, whose average was 3.1.
“No, it’s me!” continued Davie, regarding the crack bat as a policeman glances at a crossing sweep. “That’s who it is. Who gets Ranji’s hundreds for him? The groundsman! Who keeps your averages up to forty? Why, the groundsman! Put you on a billiard table, with the sun a-shining and the birds a-singing, and you stop in all day. Take 
“‘WHO ARE YOU?’ FALTERED DAVIE, WITH TREMBLING LIPS” (p. 314). you to Old Trafford, and stick you on bird-lime, with the ball a-talking, and they wipe the floor wi’ you. You can score at Brighton when it’s seventy i’ the shade, and you crumple up at Bramall Lane in an east wind. No, it’s the groundsman, wi’ the aid of
