Running hard to the help of Mr. Raeburn was the youngest Britling boy, a beautiful contrast.  It was like a puff ball supporting and assisting a conger eel.  In front of Mr. Direck the little stout man was being alert.  Teddy was supporting the attack near the middle of the field, crying “Centre!” while Mr. Britling, very round and resolute, was bouncing straight towards the threatened goal.  But Mrs. Teddy, running as swiftly as her sister, was between Teddy and the ball.  Whack! the little short man’s stick had clashed with Cecily’s.  Confused things happened with sticks and feet, and the little short man appeared to be trying to cut down Cecily as one cuts down a tree, she tried to pass the ball to her centre forward—­too late, and then Mrs. Teddy had intercepted it, and was flickering back towards Mr. Britling’s goal in a rush in which Mr. Direck perceived it was his duty to join.

Yes, he had to follow up Mrs. Teddy and pick up the ball if he had a chance and send it in to her or the captain or across to the left forwards, as circumstances might decide.  It was perfectly clear.

Then came his moment.  The little formidably padded lady who had dined at the Dower House overnight, made a gallant attack upon Mrs. Teddy.  Out of the confusion of this clash the ball spun into Mr. Direck’s radius.  Where should he smite and how?  A moment of reflection was natural.

But now the easy-fitting discipline of the Dower House style of hockey became apparent.  Mr. Direck had last observed the tall young Indian gentleman, full of vitality and anxious for destruction, far away in the distance on the opposing right wing.  But now, regardless of the more formal methods of the game, this young man had resolved, without further delay and at any cost, to hit the ball hard, and he was travelling like some Asiatic typhoon with an extreme velocity across the remonstrances of Mr. Britling and the general order of his side.  Mr. Direck became aware of him just before his impact.  There was a sort of collision from which Mr. Direck emerged with a feeling that one side of his face was permanently flattened, but still gallantly resolved to hit the comparatively lethargic ball.  He and the staggered but resolute Indian clashed sticks again.  And Mr. Direck had the best of it.  Years of experience couldn’t have produced a better pass to the captain....

“Good pass!”

Apparently from one of the London visitors.

But this was some game!

The ball executed some rapid movements to and fro across the field.  Our side was pressing hard.  There was a violent convergence of miscellaneous backs and suchlike irregulars upon the threatened goal.  Mr. Britling’s dozen was rapidly losing its disciplined order.  One of the sidecar ladies and the gallant Indian had shifted their activities to the defensive back, and with them was a spectacled gentleman waving his stick, high above all recognised rules.  Mr. Direck’s captain and both Britling boys hurried to join the fray.  Mr. Britling, who seemed to Mr. Direck to be for a captain rather too demagogic, also ran back to rally his forces by loud cries.  “Pass outwardly!” was the burthen of his contribution.