Jack. I won't buy Elsie from you at the price of my professional honour. Austin. Professional fiddlesticks! The thing's done every day. Jack. Not by a Blackton lad. I've learnt the game you taught me, Mr. Whitworth, the straight, clean Blackton game. I'll not forget my school even at the bidding of the head. I'm not anxious to be suspended for dishonest play. Austin. Only incompetents get suspended. You needn't fear. You're skilful. Jack. Not at roguery. Edmund. You're talking straight, Mr. Metherell. Jack. Yes. It's you that's talking crooked. (_Enter Elsie._) Elsie. May I come in now? Austin. No. We're busy. Elsie. Thank you. (_Closing door._) You don't get rid of me twice with that dear old business bogey. I expect Jack's made an awful mess of it. Has he told you about us, father? Austin. No. Yes. Go away. We're talking seriously. Elsie. Yes. You all look very foolish. Is it settled, Jack? Jack. No. Elsie. What's the trouble? Is father being ridiculous? Edmund. Upon my word, Elsie---- Elsie. Oh, that's all right, uncle Ed. It does father no end of good to be talked to like that. Jack, I find I can be ready in a month after all, so that's all right. Edmund. Ready for what, girl? Elsie. My wedding, uncle. You'd better start thinking about your present. Austin. But---- Elsie. Hasn't Jack told you we're to be married? Austin. He's told me he wants to marry you, but---- Elsie. Then what is there to argue about? Men do love making a fuss about nothing and fancying themselves important. Come along, Jack. You're going to take me down to the ground. Edmund. Well, I'm---- Elsie. Oh, dear no, Uncle. You're not. (_Elsie goes off with Jack. They reach door._) CURTAIN. ACT II _The office of Blackton Football Club is situated under a stand, the slope of which forms its roof, down to some eight feet from its floor. In the perpendicular side are the windows, overlooking the ground. Used as much for the entertainment of visitors as for office work, the room contains only a desk with revolving chair, and a sofa to indicate its titular purpose, and for the rest is a comfortably appointed club-room. On the walls are sporting prints and, by the desk, a file of posters, the uppermost advertising the day's match. A door gives access, and a second door leads to the ambulance-room._ (_Hugh Martin, the Club Secretary, sits at the open desk. Austin enters._) Austin. Well, Martin. Martin. Good afternoon, Mr. Whitworth. Austin. What do you estimate the gate at? Five hundred pounds? Martin (_rising_). The returns are not in yet, but hardly that much. Austin (_looking out of window_). I should call it a twenty thousand crowd by the looks of it. Martin (_not looking out_). Not far short. But (_awkwardly_) there's been a little accident, sir. Austin. Accident? Martin. Oh, it's happened before. They rushed the turnstiles on the shilling side. Austin. I say, Martin, that's too bad. Just when we need every penny we can screw.