a match, just to teach us better!  Do you expect us to win every match?  Why, Preston North End itself”—­ here he spoke solemnly, of heroes—­“Preston North End itself in its great days didn’t win every match—­it lost to Accrington.  But did the Preston public desert it?  No! You—­you haven’t got the pluck of a louse, nor the faithfulness of a cat.  You’ve starved your football club to death, and now you call a meeting to weep and grumble.  And you have the insolence to write letters to the Signal about bad management, forsooth!  If anybody in the hall thinks he can manage this club better than me and my co-Directors have done, I may say that we hold a majority of the shares, and we’ll part with the whole show to any clever person or persons who care to take it off our hands at a bargain price.  That’s talking.”

He sat down.

Silence fell.  Even in the Five Towns a public meeting is seldom bullied as Councillor Barlow had bullied that meeting.  It was aghast.  Councillor Barlow had never been popular:  he had merely been respected; but thenceforward he became even less popular than before.

“I’m sure we shall all find Councillor Barlow’s heat quite excusable—­” the Mayor diplomatically began.

“No heat at all,” the Councillor interrupted.  “Simply cold truth!”

A number of speakers followed, and nearly all of them were against the Directors.  Some, with prodigious memories for every combination of players in every match that had ever been played, sought to prove by detailed instances that Councillor Barlow and his co-Directors had persistently and regularly muddled their work during thirteen industrious years.  And they defended the insulted public by asserting that no public that respected itself would pay sixpence to watch the wretched football provided by Councillor Barlow.  They shouted that the team wanted reconstituting, wanted new blood.

“Yes,” shouted Councillor Barlow in reply; “And how are you going to get new blood, with transfer fees as high as they are now?  You can’t get even an average good player for less than L200.  Where’s the money to come from?  Anybody want to lend a thousand or so on second debentures?”

He laughed sneeringly.

No one showed a desire to invest in second debentures of the Bursley
F.C.  Ltd.

Still, speakers kept harping on the necessity of new blood in the team, and then others, bolder, harped on the necessity of new blood on the board.

“Shares on sale!” cried the Councillor.  “Any buyers?  Or,” he added, “do you want something for nothing—­as usual?”

At length a gentleman rose at the back of the hall.

“I don’t pretend to be an expert on football,” said he, “though I think it’s a great game, but I should like to say a few words as to this question of new blood.”

The audience craned its neck.

“Will Mr Councillor Machin kindly step up to the platform?” the Mayor suggested.