In the midst of the "scrap" that followed this graceful rebuke, which two unmounted members of the Blackhampton Constabulary regarded from a strategic distance with the utmost detachment, a cry of "'Ere they come!" was loosed from at least thirty-five thousand throats, and such a roar rent the heavens as must have disturbed Zeus considerably just as he was settling down for the afternoon. "Play up, Rovers!" Blackhampton might well be proud of the eleven wearers of the chocolate and blue. A finer-looking set of warriors would have been hard to find. And it did not lessen the pride of their friends that among the eleven only the goalkeeper could claim to be representing the place of his birth. "Play up, Sailor!" The slender, handsome boy, looking rather fine-drawn, but with something of the turn of limb of a thoroughbred racehorse, came into the goal and was duly greeted by his admirers. "'E plays for England," proclaimed one of these. "I don't think," said a Visigoth with a mouth-organ. "Play up, Dink!" The great Dinkie, side-stepping with the loose-limbed elegance of a ragtime dancer, looked as smart as paint. "There's not a better inside left playing footba'," said another enthusiast, looking round for contradiction. "I don't think," said a Visigoth with a rattle. "Play up, Ginger!" Ginger, with head of flame, looking more bow-legged, prick-eared and pugnacious than ever, was a veritable pocket edition of the "Fighting Temeraire." "'E's a daisy, ain't 'e?" said the enthusiast. "I don't think," quoth the Visigoth. Another roar was loosed, this time by fifteen thousand Duckingfield larynxes. "'Ere they are. Play oop, Britann-yah. Play oop, me little lads." All this was merely the prelude to such a game as never was seen on Gamble's Pleasance. The Rovers were on the crest of the wave. They had not lost a match since September 12, and this day was Saturday, February 20. They were proud and confident, they were playing on their own ground in the presence of their friends, and they had a very long score to settle with Duckingfield Britannia. And yet deep in the hearts of the wearers of the chocolate and blue was the sense of fate. And it is a stronger thing than any that has yet existed in the soul of man. Fought they never so fiercely, under no matter what conditions, whenever the haughty Rovers met these unpolished foemen they had invariably to bite the dust or the mud, as the case might be. The pace was a corker to start with. It was as if twenty-two parti-colored tigers had been suddenly let loose. But it was not football that was played. Britannia was not capable of expounding the noble science as it was understood by the polished and urbane Rovers of Blackhampton. "Goin' to be a dog-fight as usual," proclaimed Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, who was seated in the exact center of the members' stand.