Saunders, fair-haired and finely built, greeted him without enthusiasm. He had just been telling the goalkeeper that he would have all the work to do, just as if that wasn’t exactly what he wanted. Five minutes before he had told her that, owing to the rotten scheme of attack, he never hoped to see a ball all afternoon, but he expected her to have forgotten that. The goalkeeper said it was a shame to both remarks, and prayed that, if a ball ever did arrive, he wouldn’t knock her down inside the goal-posts and sit on her, as he had a trick of doing. She was a bright-faced young person in pads, and nodded genially to Wiggie as he came up shyly. She wanted to tell him that she had heard him sing, and though of course she liked this sort of thing much better, she could do with a tune now and then. Wiggie thanked her sweetly for doing with it, and told her how much he admired her in her perilous position. At least Harriet had not put him _there_, to combine the philosophy of a fisherman with the stoicism of an Aunt Sally. Saunders suddenly felt rather jealous, and came and joined them. He was pleased to be patronising and instructive, if somewhat contra-law-and-order. “The great thing is to keep in your _place_!” he said kindly. “Never mind if you think the ball is six yards nearer your side than mine; it probably isn’t. You leave it to me. _I’ll_ see to it all right. But if you come barging in just as I get there, we shan’t hit anything but each other, and the ball will be pushed through; whereas, if you keep out of the way, I can give our forwards a chance. You spend your time looking after the left outer. He’s always offside--know what that is, of course?--and fouls every other minute, but it’s no earthly use appealing. Knewstubb is much too busy looking after his legs to remember he’s a whistle in his mouth, and in any case no referee pays any attention to appeals about Davids--they’re too fed up on ’em. So don’t waste your breath yelling over his operations, but sneak the ball from him any way you can get at it, and if he starts shoving, just shove him back!” Wiggie cheered a little. The glorious five minutes were evidently not to be his, but something offered. To go down to death in a locked struggle with the curate was not exactly an heroic finish, but it was better than shivering into nothingness. He went to his post with more hope.