“Chowdler being beaten,” said Mr. Bent, “is a much more amusing spectacle than Chowdler winning. But I don’t regard it as possible. He always keeps a reserve force--a kind of territorial army--of lean and hungry veterans with Christian names, who have grown old in the service of their country. I am credibly informed, that his senior fag, whom I see on the field, is a widower and maintains a family of four at Brighton. They all belong to the class which Chowdler designates as ‘poor old’ or ‘good old’; and against this combination of age, godliness, and thrift, no ordinary house eleven stands a chance.” “Don’t talk rot,” said Mr. Rankin, “_I_ back Trimble’s. They’ll take a lot of beating to-day.” The whole school and most of the masters were out to watch the game. Mr. Tipham was conspicuous in his post-impressionist scarf, shouting ostentatiously for Trimble’s. Mr. Grady hovered uneasily on the outskirts, with the hunted look on his face; perhaps the noise reminded him of his more uproarious classes. Mrs. Chowdler and Mrs. Trimble were seated in a reserved enclosure, exchanging feline amenities. Their better halves wandered about on opposite sides of the ground--Mr. Chowdler on the touch-line, Mr. Trimble a little in the rear of the spectators, in a state of internal agitation which would have made sitting impossible. For the game was of a most thrilling description. In the first half Trimble’s did most of the attacking and crossed over with a lead of one goal to nothing. “Oh, it’s all right!” said Mr. Trimble with assumed nonchalance to Mr. Bent, who had just congratulated him on the results so far obtained. “We shall go to pieces sure enough in the second half! my fellows have a perfect genius for collapsing. The asses! If they hadn’t bungled all their chances we might have been three up.” It looked as if Mr. Trimble’s gloomy prophecy were going to be fulfilled; for the game had hardly been restarted when a foolish misunderstanding among the Trimbleite backs enabled Chowdler’s to equalise; and, before their opponents had recovered from the shock and consequent demoralisation, le Willow sent in a lucky shot which put his side ahead. A yell of triumph went up from the Chowdlerites and their supporters, and Mr. Chowdler himself, in spite of a heavy fur coat, leapt into the air on the touch-line and beat his gloved hands one against the other. “Well played, Harry!” he roared. “Well played all! Good lads! Stick _to_ it, stick _to_ it!” “Given away with a pound of tea!” said Mr. Trimble with a short mirthless laugh. “That settles the game; and I must say that we thoroughly deserve to lose. Did you ever see such football!”