surface of the billowy sea of heartfelt applause.  The host of the fifteen thousand might have just had their lives saved, or their children snatched from destruction and their wives from dishonour; they might have been preserved from bankruptcy, starvation, prison, torture; they might have been rewarding with their impassioned worship a band of national heroes.  But it was not so.  All that had happened was that the ball had rolled into the net of the Manchester Rovers’ goal.  Knype had drawn level.  The reputation of the Five Towns before the jury of expert opinion that could distinguish between first-class football and second-class was maintained intact.  I could hear specialists around me proving that though Knype had yet five League matches to play, its situation was safe.  They pointed excitedly to a huge hoarding at one end of the ground on which appeared names of other clubs with changing figures.  These clubs included the clubs which Knype would have to meet before the end of the season, and the figures indicated their fortunes on various grounds similar to this ground all over the country.  If a goal was scored in Newcastle, or in Southampton, the very Peru of first-class football, it was registered on that board and its possible effect on the destinies of Knype was instantly assessed.  The calculations made were dizzying.

Then a little flock of pigeons flew up and separated, under the illusion that they were free agents and masters of the air, but really wafted away to fixed destinations on the stupendous atmospheric waves of still-continued cheering.

After a minute or two the ball was restarted, and the greater noise had diminished to the sensitive uneasy murmur which responded like a delicate instrument to the fluctuations of the game.  Each feat and manoeuvre of Knype drew generous applause in proportion to its intention or its success, and each sleight of the Manchester Rovers, successful or not, provoked a holy disgust.  The attitude of the host had passed beyond morality into religion.

Then, again, while my attention had lapsed from the field, a devilish, a barbaric, and a deafening yell broke from those fifteen thousand passionate hearts.  It thrilled me; it genuinely frightened me.  I involuntarily made the motion of swallowing.  After the thunderous crash of anger from the host came the thin sound of a whistle.  The game stopped.  I heard the same word repeated again and again, in divers tones of exasperated fury: 

“Foul!”

I felt that I was hemmed in by potential homicides, whose arms were lifted in the desire of murder and whose features were changed from the likeness of man into the corporeal form of some pure and terrible instinct.

And I saw a long doll rise from the ground and approach a lesser doll with threatening hands.

“Foul!  Foul!”

“Go it, Jos!  Knock his neck out!  Jos!  He tripped thee up!”