so much
progress in the game as those Flying Blues, and few, if any, were gifted
with the same amount of self-confidence. The Blues, nevertheless, had
good reason to feel proud of some of their members, for they were young
and active, and the very ideal of smart football players. It was a lucky
thing for them when they migrated from the north and established
themselves in the old ground vacated by the Cedargrove. Had it not been
for that lucky arrangement, they might have wasted their football lives
in obscurity, and gone down to Association posterity "unhonoured and
unsung." Their success was as remarkable as it was swift and decisive.
Possessing any amount of pluck, they tackled all and sundry in the
district, and the second year, after gaining something like a
first-class reputation, won nearly every game they played. Their
captain, Tom Vincent, was a grand back, and, indeed, one of the crack
men in that position, of whom Scotland has now so many to select from;
and then there was Bentback, Bill Donoup, Jack Drummer, and Mat Neil,
all fine players at their respective positions. Never shall I forget the
match between the Blues and the Conquerors for the Association Cup a
dozen years ago, about the last big match in which I took an active
part. My master's team had had bad luck though, for after pressing the
Flying Blues till within a few minutes of the game, the Blues beat the
Conquerors by one goal to none, Bill Donoup sending the ball under goal
at the last minute, although the story goes that he had a bet of a
"sov." that the Conquerors would win, and it was even admitted that he
was heard to say, when kicking the goal, "Here goes my blooming
sovereign!"

Although now stowed away in the corner of a large chest, side by side
with jerseys, caps, knickerbockers, and other football requisites, as a
remnant of the glorious game, my master sometimes visits me to think
over the past, and I often hear him say that, although he does not play
now, he still goes to see some of the leading contests, and at them
picks up many queer stories of the modern players. Last year's crack
men, as he sees them crowding in his "mind's eye," are not, he says,
unworthy representatives of those of the past.

_VI.--HOW CLUBS WERE STARTED LONG AGO._

When the summer game of cricket was far more extensively played in
Glasgow and District than it is now, those who understood the feelings
and aspirations of young men engaged in it rep