ELSIE. If you say another word against Jack Metherell, I'll knock you into the middle of next week. You're frightened of the sight of a football yourself and you dare to libel a man who——
LEO. The greater the truth the greater the libel. You're a solicitor, uncle. Isn't that so?
EDMUND. Do you want my professional opinion?
LEO (dodging round the table from Elsie). I want your personal protection.
ELSIE (giving Leo up). Uncle, Jack Metherell's the truest sportsman who ever stepped on to a football field. He's the straightest shooter and the trickiest dribbler in the game. I'd walk barefooted over thorns to watch him play, and for Leo to say he'll retire at thirty and grow fat is nothing but a spiteful idiotic lie.
EDMUND (making peace) Well, suppose we say he'll retire at thirty-five and just put on a little flesh and live to a ripe old age, fighting his battles over again.
LEO. Over a gallon of beer in the saloon bar.
ELSIE. If your head wasn't too full of poetry for anything important, you'd know Jack's a teetotaller. He's never entered a public house and he never will.
EDMUND. If I were you, Leo, I wouldn't quarrel. I should make a poem about it.
ELSIE. It's all he's fit for. Lampooning a great man. I tell you, uncle, Jack Metherell can do what he likes in Blackton. If he cared to put up for Parliament, no other man would make a show.