The struggle about the Britling goal ceased to be a game and became something between a fight and a social gathering.  Mr. Britling’s goal-keeper could be heard shouting, “I can’t see the ball! Lift your feet!” The crowded conflict lurched towards the goal posts.  “My shin!” cried Mr. Manning.  “No, you don’t!”

Whack, but again whack!

Whack!  “Ah! would you?” Whack.

“Goal!” cried the side-car gentleman.

“Goal!” cried the Britling boys....

Mr. Manning, as goal-keeper, went to recover the ball, but one of the Britling boys politely anticipated him.

The crowd became inactive, and then began to drift back to loosely conceived positions.

“It’s no good swarming into goal like that,” Mr. Britling, with a faint asperity in his voice, explained to his followers.  “We’ve got to keep open and not crowd each other.”

Then he went confidentially to the energetic young Indian to make some restrictive explanation of his activities.

Mr. Direck strolled back towards Cecily.  He was very warm and a little blown, but not, he felt, disgraced.  He was winning.

“You’ll have to take your coat off,” she said.

It was a good idea.

It had occurred to several people and the boundary line was already dotted with hastily discarded jackets and wraps and so forth.  But the lady in the motoring dust coat was buttoning it to the chin.

“One goal love,” said the minor Britling boy.

“We haven’t begun yet, Sunny,” said Cecily.

“Sonny!  That’s American,” said Mr. Direck.

“No.  We call him Sunny Jim,” said Cecily.  “They’re bullying off again.”

“Sunny Jim’s American too,” said Mr. Direck, returning to his place....

The struggle was resumed.  And soon it became clear that the first goal was no earnest of the quality of the struggle.  Teddy and Cecily formed a terribly efficient combination.  Against their brilliant rushes, supported in a vehement but effective manner by the Indian to their right and guided by loud shoutings from Mr. Britling (centre), Mr. Direck and the side-car lady and Mr. Raeburn struggled in vain.  One swift advance was only checked by the dust cloak, its folds held the ball until help arrived; another was countered by a tremendous swipe of Mr. Raeburn’s that sent the ball within an inch of the youngest Britling’s head and right across the field; the third resulted in a swift pass from Cecily to the elder Britling son away on her right, and he shot the goal neatly and swiftly through the lattice of Mr. Lawrence Carmine’s defensive movements.  And after that very rapidly came another goal for Mr. Britling’s side and then another.

Then Mr. Britling cried out that it was “Half Time,” and explained to Mr. Direck that whenever one side got to three goals they considered it was half time and had five minutes’ rest and changed sides.  Everybody was very hot and happy, except the lady in the dust cloak who was perfectly cool.  In everybody’s eyes shone the light of battle, and not a shadow disturbed the brightness of the afternoon for Mr. Direck except a certain unspoken anxiety about Mr. Raeburn’s trousers.