and Reaction_

Almost before the confusion of a new term had subsided, Michael put his
name down to play football again, and it was something in the nature of
an occasion when in the first sweltering Middle-side game he scored six
tries. Already his contemporaries had forgotten that he was once a fleet
and promising three-quarter, so that his resurrection was regarded as an
authentic apparition, startling in its unexpectedness. Michael was the
only person not much surprized when he was invited by Abercrombie to
play as substitute for one of the Seniors absent from a Big-side trial.
Yet even Michael was surprized when in the opening match between
Classics and Moderns he read his name on the notice-board as sixteenth
man; and when, through the continued illness of the first choice, he
actually found himself walking on to the field between the black lines
of spectators, he was greatly content. Yet the finest thrill of all came
when in the line-out he found himself on the left wing with Alan, with
Alan not very unlike the old Alan even now in the coveted Tyrian vest of
the Classical First Fifteen.

Into that game Michael poured all he felt of savage detestation for
everything that the Modern side stood for. Not an opponent was collared
that did not in his falling agony take on the likeness of Percy Garrod;
not a Modern half-back was hurled into touch who was not in Michael's
imagination insolent with damnably destructive theories of life. It was
exhilarating, it was superb, it was ineffable, the joy of seeing Alan
hand off a Modern bounder and swing the ball out low to him crouching
vigilant upon the left. It was intoxicating, it was divine to catch the
ball, and with zigzag leap and plunge to tear wildly on towards the
Modern goal, to hear the Classical lower boys shriek their high-voiced
thrilling exhortations, to hear the maledictions of the enemy
ricochetting from a force of speed that spun its own stability. Back
went the ball to Alan, shouting with flushed face on his right, just as
one of the Modern three-quarters, with iron grip round Michael's
faltering knees, fetched him crashing down.

"Good pass," cried the delighted Classical boys, and "Well run, sir,
well run, sir!" they roared as Alan whizzed the ball along to the
dapper, the elusive, the incomparable Terry. "Go in, yourself," they
prayed, as Terry like a chamois bounded straight at the despairing
full-back, then with a gasp that triumphed over the vibra