when the novelty of earnestness in football had worn off, but Acton's
demands were as inexorable as ever. Matters came to a head (probably, as I
expect, to the new captain's inward satisfaction) when his girding upset
Chalmers--about the best forward of Biffen's regenerated lot. There was to
be a match with some of the Fifth for the Saturday, and Acton had arranged
a preliminary canter the day before to test his attack. Chalmers was the
winger, but on the day he was tremendously selfish, and stuck to the ball
until he was robbed or knocked off it. Now, Acton loathed the "alone I did
it" type of forward, and asked Chalmers pretty acidly what his inside man
was for. This riled Chalmers considerably, for he had a large private
opinion about his own play, and he said pretty hotly, "Mind your own
business, Acton."

Acton said very coolly, "I am going to do so. Please remember, Chalmers,
this is not a one-horse show."

"Seems distinctly like it, judging by the fellow who's been doing all the
talking for the last age."

"Play the game, and don't be an ass."

"I object to being called an ass," said Chalmers, in a white rage.

"Well, mule, then," said Acton, cheerfully. "Anything to oblige you,
Chalmers, bar your waltzing down the touch-line to perdition. You're not a
Bassett nor a Bell yet, you know."

Chalmers would dearly have liked to have struck Acton, but Worcester
looked so utterly disgusted at the whole business, that I fancy it was
Dick's eye that suggested to Chalmers his getting into his coat and