Mr. Trimble, though he was one of the best housemasters at Chiltern, was a man of rather insignificant appearance. The youngest Miss Gussy had once said of him that he always looked as if he were wearing somebody else’s cast-off clothes. On this particular afternoon he had on an ulster of antique design and faded yellow colour, which contrasted unfavourably with the smart coat of his rival and seemed to brand him as of inferior rank. “The moral effect of that last goal,” said Mr. Bent, whose sympathies were with the ulster, “may be disastrous; but the game is not over yet. I must confess that I am beginning to be horribly excited. I have not got your philosophic detachment, Trimble; and the sight of Chowdler on the touch-line, clapping his great woollen gloves together, always arouses most unchristian feelings in me. I want to see him, not merely beaten, but crushed, disgraced, annihilated. Well played! Oh, well played!” For the Trimbleites, stung by disaster, had roused themselves to superhuman efforts and were once more attacking fiercely. There was a confused _mêlée_ in front of Chowdler’s goal. Suddenly the referee blew his whistle, and when the players separated it was seen that a Chowdlerite was lying disabled on the ground. “Did you see that?” cried Mr. Chowdler, rushing up to Mr. Black, whom he spied in his neighbourhood. Mr. Black was a cautious man and shy of committing himself to excitable colleagues, so he replied: “I was just looking the other way, so I didn’t see what happened; but I fear somebody is injured.” “It is one of the most deliberate and foulest bits of play,” said Mr. Chowdler in a voice for all to hear, “that I have ever witnessed. Shameful, shameful! From this moment I take no further interest in the game. Good God!” he added suddenly, throwing up his hands in a gesture of despair, “it’s le Willow!” And he hurried off to assist the victim. Le Willow had sprained an ankle and had to be helped off the field. When he had been removed and the players had resumed their places, it became evident that the referee had awarded a free kick. “All very well!” muttered Mr. Chowdler to Mr. Rankin, as he hurried back to his post on the touch-line, “but what’s the use of a free kick when it has cost you your best man!” It was indeed a poor consolation--merely a black mark against an unscrupulous foe who cared nothing for black marks. But imagine Mr. Chowdler’s horror, indignation, and dismay, when he suddenly realised that the free kick had been awarded, not for, but against his house. “Monstrous!” he cried aloud, as if appealing to the silent gods. “Monstrous! I saw the foul, I saw it myself. A perfectly monstrous decision!”