"Who have we got keepin' goal?" said Olympian Zeus, as he fixed a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses on his nose and looked at his card. "Arper, I see. Who the 'ell's Arper?"
"On trial, Gus." Three or four anxiously officious satellites hastened to enlighten the chairman.
"I rather like the look o' Arper." It was as Plato might have spoken had he ever worn a fur coat and had a large cigar with a band round it tucked in the side of his mouth, and had he placed his services at the disposal of the committee of the Blackhampton Rovers Football Club in order to enable it to distinguish the false from the true.
"Make and shape there," said Mr. Higginbottom. "Light on his pins. Gets down to the ball."
"Oh, well stopped, young un!" shouted an adventurous satellite, in order that an official decree might be promulgated to the general public.
It was known at once round the ground that the critics had got their eyes on the new goalkeeper.
"I've heard say, Gus," said the adventurous one, "that this youth—well saved, my lad!—is a sailor."
"Sailor is he?" Mr. Higginbottom was so much impressed by the information that he began to chew the end of his cigar. "Ops about, don't he. I tell you what, Albert"—six satellites craned to catch the chairman's ukase—"I like the cut o' the Sailor."
"Played, young un," cried the grandstand.
"Albert," said the chairman, "who's that cab oss?"