Mr. Punch's Book of Sport<br />The Humour of Cricket, Football, Tennis, Polo, Croquet, Hockey, Racin by J. A. Hammerton and Linley Sambourne (big screen ebook reader .TXT) 📗
Book online «Mr. Punch's Book of Sport<br />The Humour of Cricket, Football, Tennis, Polo, Croquet, Hockey, Racin by J. A. Hammerton and Linley Sambourne (big screen ebook reader .TXT) 📗». Author J. A. Hammerton and Linley Sambourne
"Look at them cripples!" I but sigh,
"You're right, my friends. But would you fly
A lot like ours; oh, do not try
That Foot-ball!"
[Pg 153]
Uncle Dick. "Ah yes, cricket is a fine game, no doubt—a very fine game. But football now! That's the game to make your hair curl!"
Miss Dulcie (meditatively). "Do you play football much, uncle?"
[Pg 154]
ETON FOOTBALL(By Dumb-Crambo Junior.)
MIXED WALL "GAME"
FOUR SHIES TO LOVE
THE "DEMONS" TOOK PART IN THE GAME.—Newspaper Report
FURKING OUT THE BAWL FROM THE BULLIES
[Pg 155]
ANIMAL SPIRITS
Football. "The Zambesi Scorchers."
[Pg 156]
FOOT-BALL � LA MODE[Hardly a week passes without our hearing of one or more dangerous accidents at football.]
A manly game it is, I think,
Although in private be it spoken,
While at a scrimmage I don't shrink,
That bones may be too often broken.
I snapped my clavicle last week,
Just like the rib of an umbrella;
And sprained my ankle, not to speak
Of something wrong with my patella.
Last season, too, my leg I broke,
And lay at home an idle dreamer,
It's not considered quite a joke
To contemplate a broken femur.
And when, despite the doctor's hints,
Again at foot-ball I had tussles,
I found myself once more in splints,
With damaged gastronomic muscles.
Some three times every week my head,
Is cut, contused, or sorely shaken;
My friends expect me brought home dead,
But up to now I've saved my bacon.
But what are broken bones, my boys,
Compared with noble recreation?
The scrimmages and all the joys
Of Rugby or Association!
[Pg 157]
ASSOCIATION V. RUGBY
She (plaintively—to famous Rugby half-back). "Would it get you very much out of practice if we were to dance 'socker' a little."
[Pg 158]
OPEN LETTER TO A PAIR OF FOOTBALL BOOTS(With acknowledgments to Mr. C. B. Fry in the "Daily Express")
Dear old Pals,—I want to speak to you seriously and as man to man, because you're not mere dead hide, are you? No, no, you are intelligent, sentient soles, and to be treated as such by every player.
Ah! booties, booties, you little beauties, what a lot you mean to us, don't you? and how hardly we use you.
I've known men to take you off after a game, hurl you—as Jove hurled his thunderbolts—into a corner of the pav. and there leave you till you are next required.
Ah! old men, that's not right, is it? How would we great machines of bone, muscle, and nerve-centre (ah! those nerve-centres, what tricky things they are!), how would we be for the next match if we were treated like that? Pretty stiff and stale, eh, old booties?
Now, look here, when we come in after a hard,[Pg 160] slogging game, our bodies and the grey matter in our brains thoroughly exhausted, immediately we've had our bath, our rub-down, and our cup of steaming hot Hercubos (I find Hercubos the finest thing to keep fit on during a hard season) we must turn our attention to you, booties.
First, out from our little bag must come our piece of clean, sweet selvyt. With it all that nasty black slime that gets into your pores and makes you crack must be wiped off. Now, before a good blazing fire of coal—not coke, mind, the fumes of a coke fire pale and de-oxygenate the red corpuscles of our blood, you know—we must carefully warm you till you are ripe to receive a real good dousing of our Porpo (I find Porpo the finest thing for keeping boots soft and pliable).
Finally, with a white silk handkerchief we must give you a soft polishing, and there you are, sweet and trim against our next match. Every morning you may be sure we will, like Boreas, drive away the clouds of dust that collect on you.
And then there are the laces to attend to. Oh, yes, your laces are like our nerve-fibres, the little threads that keep the whole big body taut and[Pg 164] sound. They, too, must have a good rubbing of Porpo and a rest if they need it.
Ah! and won't you repay our trouble, booties, when next we slip you on? How tightly you will clasp us just above the tubercles of our tibi�, how firmly you will grip our pliant toes, how you will help us to send the ball swishing—low and swift—into the well-tarred net!
Good-night, booties.
The "Ball of the Season."—Foot-ball.
Appropriate Football Fixture for the Fifth of November.—A match against Guy's.
"The Shinner Quartette;" or, Musical Football.
[Pg 159]
Researches in Ancient Sports.
Football match. Romulus Rovers v. Nero Half-Backs.
[Pg 161]
Prehistoric Peeps.
The annual football match between the Old Red Sandstone Rovers and the Pliocene Wanderers was immensely and deservedly popular!!
[Pg 162]
Sunday Football.
"Just look what your boys have done to my hat, Mrs. Jones!"
"Oh, the dears! Oh, I am so sorry! Now, Tom and Harry, say how sorry you are, and Mr. Lambourne won't mind!"
[Pg 163]
"Socker" on the Brain.
Harry. "Smart sort that on the right—forward."
Tom (a devoted "footer"). "Right forward? Oh! no good forward; but looks like making a fair 'half-back'!"
[Pg 165]
EXCHANGE!
Togswell (in the washing room at the office, proceeding to dress for the De Browncy's dinner-party). "Hullo! What the dooce"—(pulling out, in dismay, from black bag, a pair of blue flannel tights, a pink striped jersey, and a spiked canvas shoe).—"Confound it! Yes!—I must have taken that fellow's bag who said he was going to the athletic sports this afternoon, and he's got mine with my dress clothes!!"
[Pg 166]
A DERBY DIALOGUEScene—In Town. Jones meets Brown.
Jones. Going to Epsom?
Brown. No, I think not. Fact is, the place gets duller year by year. The train has knocked the fun out of the road.
Jones. Such a waste of time. Why go in a crowd to see some horses race, when you can read all about it in the evening papers?
Brown. Just so. No fun. No excitement. And the Downs are wretched if it rains or snows.
Jones. Certainly. The luncheon, too, is all very well; but, after all, it spoils one's dinner.
Brown. Distinctly. And champagne at two o'clock is premature.
Jones. And lobster-salad undoubtedly indigestible.[Pg 167] So it's much better not to go to the Derby—in spite of the luncheon.
Brown. Yes,—in spite of the luncheon.
(Two hours pass. Scene changes to Epsom.)
Jones. Hullo! You here?
Brown. Hullo! And if it comes to that, you here, too?
Jones. Well, I really found so little doing in town that I thought I might be here as well as anywhere else.
Brown. Just my case. Not that there's much to see or do. Silly as usual.
Jones. Quite. Always said the Derby was a fraud. But I am afraid, my dear fellow, I must hurry away, as I have got to get back to my party for luncheon.
Brown. So have I.
MAXIM FOR THE DERBY DAY
There's many a slip
'Twixt the race and the tip.
[Pg 168]
"LAST, BUT NOT LEAST"
"Why do you call him a good jockey! He never rides a winner." "That just proves it. He can finish last on the best horse in the race!"
[Pg 169]
In Search of a "Certainty."
Cautious Gambler. "Four to one be blowed! I want a chaunce of gettin' a bit for my money."
Bookmaker. "Tell you what you want. You ought to join a burial society. Sure to get somethin' out o' that!"
[Pg 170]
An Echo from Epsom.
"Wot's the matter, Chawley?"
"Matter! See that hinnercent babby there? 'E's got 'is pockets full o' tin tacks!"
[Pg 171]
WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH OUR GIRLS?
(Why not give them a few lessons in the science of book-making?)
Mr. Professor. "And now, ladies, having closed our book on the favourite, and the betting being seven to three bar one, I will show you how to work out the odds against the double event."
[Pg 172]
Cold Comfort.
Scene—Badly beaten horse walking in with crowd.
First Sporting Gent (to second ditto, who has plunged disastrously on his advice). "Told yer he was a foregorne conclusion for this race, did I? Well, and what more d'yer want? Ain't he jolly well the conclusion of it?"
[Pg 173]
Derby Day. Down the Road.—Matches that strike upon the box.
[Pg 174]
HOW TO WIN THE DERBY(By one who has all but done it.)
Take great care in purchasing a really good colt. Don't let expense stand in your way, but be sure you get for money money's worth.
Obtain the most experienced trainer in the market, and confide your colt to his care. But, at the same time, let him have the advantage of your personal encouragement and the opinion of those of your sporting friends upon whose judgment you can place reliance.
When the day of the great race draws near, secure the most reliable jockey and every other advantage that you can obtain for your valuable animal.
Then, having taken every precaution to win the Derby, why—win it!
[Pg 175]
At the Post.
First Gentleman Rider. "Who is the swell on the lame horse?"
Second Gentleman Rider. "Oh—forget his name—he's the son of the great furniture man, don'tcherknow."
First Gentleman Rider. "Goes as if he had a caster off, eh?"
[Pg 176]
ASCOT WEEK RACING NOTE
Going in for a sweep.
On the Course.
Angelina. What do they mean, dear, by the Outside Ring?
Edwin. Oh! that's the place where we always back outsiders. A splendid institution!
[Pg 177]
At the Close of the Racing Season.
Owner (to friend, pointing to disappointing colt). There he is, as well bred as any horse in the world, but can't win a race. Now what's to be done with him?
Friend (suddenly inspired). Harness the beast in front of a motor-car. He'll have to travel, then.
Real Autumn Handy-Cap.—A deerstalker.
Uncle. "Ah, Milly, I'm afraid you've lost your money over that one. He's gone the
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