Several boys have been knocked out for a minute. They are being attended to by the surgeon and staff—a liberal sprinkling of water besides massage sets them up again quite eager to join the fray.
The coach calls his crowd around him, scolds some, praises others, warns all to go carefully. The little chap, whose special mission in life seems to be to cuss and yell numbers as fast as he can get them out, is on hand; watches his opportunity to remind them that when he says 8-7-6-5-4 he does not mean 93-2-15; begs them, for sweet love's sake, to go in and win.
The referee blows the whistle. Both sides form. They toss up for the first choice, and off they go.
In spite of one's desire to sit quietly and let them chew each other up like a pack of Kilkenny cats, until nothing but the tails are left, you find yourself yelling, jumping, running along with the rest of the crowd.
"A goal! a goal!" they shriek, and all because one boy has thrown the ball over. Phew! what excitement! what joy for the winners! sympathy for the losers! a happy blending of praise and blame!
No matter where you go it is just as bad; that is, in any English-speaking country.
This fall I saw, while in Lincoln, England, a tremendous crowd coming out of the railroad station. They were pushing and jostling each other. Some were packed six deep in cabs, riding in butchers' carts, on bicycles, on tricycles. I had almost said icicles, because they were going any way so long as they got there. My curiosity at last got the best of me, and I stopped a good-natured looking man. "My friend," I said, "what are you all in such a hurry for? Is there a hanging going on, or has England declared herself a Republic?"
He looked at me with a pitiful smile, as though to pity my ignorance.