situate and being No. 3 St. Luke’s Square in the parish of Bursley in the County of Stafford and at present in the occupation of Charles Critchlow chemist under an agreement for a yearly tenancy.”  The catalogue ran to fourteen lots.  The posters, lest any one should foolishly imagine that a non-legal intellect could have achieved such explicit and comprehensive clarity of statement, were signed by a powerful firm of solicitors in Hanbridge.  Happily in the Five Towns there were no metaphysicians; otherwise the firm might have been expected to explain, in the ‘further particulars and conditions’ which the posters promised, how even a messuage could ‘be’ the thing at which it was ‘situate.’

Within a few hours of the outbreak of the rash, Mr. Critchlow abruptly presented himself before Constance at the millinery counter; he was waving a poster.

“Well!” he exclaimed grimly.  “What next, eh?”

“Yes, indeed!” Constance responded.

“Are ye thinking o’ buying?” he asked.  All the assistants, including Miss Insull, were in hearing, but he ignored their presence.

“Buying!” repeated Constance.  “Not me!  I’ve got quite enough house property as it is.”

Like all owners of real property, she usually adopted towards her possessions an attitude implying that she would be willing to pay somebody to take them from her.

“Shall you?” she added, with Mr. Critchlow’s own brusqueness.

“Me!  Buy property in St. Luke’s Square!” Mr. Critchlow sneered.  And then left the shop as suddenly as he had entered it.

The sneer at St. Luke’s Square was his characteristic expression of an opinion which had been slowly forming for some years.  The Square was no longer what it had been, though individual businesses might be as good as ever.  For nearly twelve months two shops had been to let in it.  And once, bankruptcy had stained its annals.  The tradesmen had naturally searched for a cause in every direction save the right one, the obvious one; and naturally they had found a cause.  According to the tradesmen, the cause was ’this football.’  The Bursley Football Club had recently swollen into a genuine rival of the ancient supremacy of the celebrated Knype Club.  It had transformed itself into a limited company, and rented a ground up the Moorthorne Road, and built a grand stand.  The Bursley F.C. had ‘tied’ with the Knype F.C. on the Knype ground—­a prodigious achievement, an achievement which occupied a column of the Athletic News one Monday morning!  But were the tradesmen civically proud of this glory?  No!  They said that ‘this football’ drew people out of the town on Saturday afternoons, to the complete abolition of shopping.  They said also that people thought of nothing but ‘this football;’ and, nearly in the same breath, that only roughs and good-for-nothings could possibly be interested in such a barbarous game.  And they spoke of gate-money, gambling, and professionalism, and the end of all true sport in England.  In brief, something new had come to the front and was submitting to the ordeal of the curse.