On these wickets, he would bowl a perfect length and his spin was such that the ball, "popping" from the crust of the turf, would gain pace so that not even the most technically correct batsman could hope to survive.

Wainwright featured in four of the five Tests on Stoddart's 1897/98 tour of Australia, but found, not long into the visit, that his off spin was declining to turn.

When he arrived back in Yorkshire, Wainwright went straight to the nets and noted that the ball immediately started to spin in the manner to which he had been accustomed.

A better batsman than bowler, Wainwright suffered from inconsistency, but on his day could play brilliant innings characterised by powerful hitting.

In fielding, Wainwright excelled as a close catcher; along with John Tunnicliffe he gave vital support to Yorkshire's powerful bowling attacks, holding forty two catches in 1895.

By this time, he and Bobby Peel were the finest slow bowling partnership in county cricket, and they were often unplayable when the wicket helped them.

In the dry summer of 1896, he recaptured his ability to exploit the few sticky wickets, and got closer to a thousand runs than ever before.

With Rhodes and Haigh now Yorkshire's destroyers on sticky wickets, Wainwright did little bowling in 1900 and 1901 – his last two seasons – but his batting, though inconsistent, remained highly valuable as a last resort.

Following his retirement, he went to work as a professional at Shrewsbury School, where he was to replace William Attewell as a young Neville Cardus' colleague.

He was at the extreme to Attewell; he belonged to a period that marked a transition in the development of the social life of the English professional cricketer; he was a bridge from the simple and dignified forelock-touching William to the Hammonds and the Sutcliffes, who burnish their hair and go to Savile Row for their clothes.

The room was empty save for one man, dressed in blue serge, with a shrewd lean face.

One day he backed a winner at a glorious price, and towards eleven o'clock that night he and the drill-sergeant of the school arrived arm-in-arm (supporting one another) in the sitting-room of our lodgings.

The drill-sergeant as gravely introduced Ted to me, then taking my arm, he whispered rather noisily in my ear, 'I'm 'fraid 'e's a l'il drunk, so I've jus' bror him h-home.'

He collapsed and fell on his umbrella which, though the night was hot, he had carried with him for hours neatly rolled up, and he broke it into two equal halves.

Next morning Ted came down to breakfast fresh as a daisy and saw the broken halves of his umbrella which Mrs. Rodenhurst had carefully laid on the sofa.