H. G. Wells,
The Works of H. G. Wells
(1924)
“ I am fond of my old cricketer in spite of a certain mendacious and malign element in him. His yarns of gallant stands and unexpected turns of fortune, of memorable hits and eccentric umpiring, albeit tending sometimes incredibly to his glory, are full of the flavour of days well spent, of bright mornings of play, sunlit sprawlings beside the score tent, warmth, the flavour of bitten grass stems and the odour of crushed turf. One seems to hear the clapping hands of village ancients, and their ululations of delight. ”
