There were two "great" football clubs in the Five Towns—Knype, one of the oldest clubs in England, and Bursley. Both were in the League, though Knype was in the first division while Bursley was only in the second. Both were, in fact, limited companies, engaged as much in the pursuit of dividends as in the practice of the one ancient and glorious sport which appeals to the reason and the heart of England. (Neither ever paid a dividend.) Both employed professionals, who, by a strange chance, were nearly all born in Scotland; and both also employed trainers who before an important match took the teams off to a hydropathic establishment far, far distant from any public-house. (This was called "training.") Now, whereas the Knype Club was struggling along fairly well, the Bursley Club had come to the end of its resources. The great football public had practically deserted it. The explanation, of course, was that Bursley had been losing too many matches. The great football public had no use for anything but victories. It would treat its players like gods—so long as they won. But when they happened to lose, the great football public simply sulked. It did not kick a man that was down; it merely ignored him, well knowing that the man could not get up without help. It cared nothing whatever for fidelity, municipal patriotism, fair play, the chances of war, or dividends on capital. If it could see victories it would pay sixpence, but it would not pay sixpence to assist at defeats. Still, when at a special general meeting of the Bursley Football Club, Limited, held at the registered offices, the Coffee House, Bursley, Councillor Barlow, J. P., chairman of the company since the creation of the League, announced that the directors had reluctantly come to the conclusion that they could not conscientiously embark on the dangerous risks of the approaching season, and that it was the intention of the directors to wind up the Club, in default of adequate public interest—when Bursley read this in the _Signal_, the town was certainly shocked. Was the famous club, then, to disappear for ever, and the football ground to be sold in plots and the grandstand for firewood? The shock was so severe that the death of Alderman Bloor (none the less a mighty figure in Bursley) passed as a minor event. Hence the advertisement of the meeting in the Town Hall caused joy and hope, and people said to themselves, "Something’s bound to be done; the old Club can’t go out like that." And everybody grew quite sentimental. And although nothing is supposed to be capable of filling Bursley Town Hall except a political meeting and an old folks’ treat, Bursley Town Hall was as near full as made no matter for the football question. Many men had cheerfully sacrificed a game of billiards and a glass of beer in order to attend it.