Leo. Quite. He's the idol of my sisters and the Black-ton roughs. For two hours every Saturday and Bank Holiday through eight months of the year forty thousand pairs of eyes are glued on Metherell and the newspapers of Saturday night, Sunday and Monday chronicle his exploits in about two columns; but if you don't know what "agitating the spheroid towards the sticks" means, you'd better not try to read them. (_Elsie approaches him threateningly._) He is also good looking and a decent fellow. Elsie. You'd better add that. Leo. I will add more. He spends the rest of his time training for those two hours, and when he's thirty he'll retire and keep a pub; and in three years eighteen stone of solid flesh will bury the glory that was Metherell. Elsie (_threatening him_). You viperous little skunk. Leo. I appeal to you, uncle. Can a skunk possess the attributes of a viper? Elsie. If you say another word against Jack Metherell, I'll knock you into the middle of next week. You're frightened of the sight of a football yourself and you dare to libel a man who---- Leo. The greater the truth the greater the libel. You're a solicitor, uncle. Isn't that so? Edmund. Do you want my professional opinion? Leo (_dodging round the table from Elsie_). I want your personal protection. Elsie (_giving Leo up_). Uncle, Jack Metherell's the truest sportsman who ever stepped on to a football field. He's the straightest shooter and the trickiest dribbler in the game. I'd walk barefooted over thorns to watch him play, and for Leo to say he'll retire at thirty and grow fat is nothing but a spiteful idiotic lie. Edmund (_making peace_) Well, suppose we say he'll retire at thirty-five and just put on a little flesh and live to a ripe old age, fighting his battles over again. Leo. Over a gallon of beer in the saloon bar. Elsie. If your head wasn't too full of poetry for anything important, you'd know Jack's a teetotaller. He's never entered a public house and he never will. Edmund. If I were you, Leo, I wouldn't quarrel. I should make a poem about it. Elsie. It's all he's fit for. Lampooning a great man. I tell you, uncle, Jack Metherell can do what he likes in Blackton. If he cared to put up for Parliament, no other man would make a show. Leo. Oh, the fellow's popular. They all love Jack. Elsie. Popular. There isn't a woman in the town but would sell her soul to marry him. Edmund. This seems to be the old Pagan worship of the body. Leo. The mob must have a hero. Prize-fighting's illegal and cricket's slow, so it's the footballer's turn to-day to be an idol. Elsie. Look here, you can judge for yourself this afternoon. Leo. Are you coming to the match, uncle? Edmund. Yes. I'm curious to see it. I suppose you're not going? Leo. Oh, I shall go. Edmund. Really? I had gathered that you don't like football. Leo. I don't like funerals or weddings either, but they're all the sort of family function one goes to as a duty.