should he smite and how? A moment of reflection was natural.

But now the easy-fitting discipline of the Dower House style of hockey
became apparent. Mr. Direck had last observed the tall young Indian
gentleman, full of vitality and anxious for destruction, far away in the
distance on the opposing right wing. But now, regardless of the more
formal methods of the game, this young man had resolved, without further
delay and at any cost, to hit the ball hard, and he was travelling like
some Asiatic typhoon with an extreme velocity across the remonstrances
of Mr. Britling and the general order of his side. Mr. Direck became
aware of him just before his impact. There was a sort of collision from
which Mr. Direck emerged with a feeling that one side of his face was
permanently flattened, but still gallantly resolved to hit the
comparatively lethargic ball. He and the staggered but resolute Indian
clashed sticks again. And Mr. Direck had the best of it. Years of
experience couldn't have produced a better pass to the captain....

"Good pass!"

Apparently from one of the London visitors.

But this was _some_ game!

The ball executed some rapid movements to and fro across the field. Our
side was pressing hard. There was a violent convergence of miscellaneous
backs and suchlike irregulars upon the threatened goal. Mr. Britling's
dozen was rapidly losing its disciplined order. One of the sidecar
ladies and the gallant Indian had shifted their activities to the
defensive back, and with them was a spectacled gentleman waving his
stick, high above all recognised rules. Mr. Direck's captain and both
Britling boys hurried to join the fray. Mr. Britling, who seemed to Mr.
Direck to be for a captain rather too demagogic, also ran back to rally
his forces by loud cries. "Pass outwardly!" was the burthen of his
contribution.

The struggle about the Britling goal ceased to be a game and became
something between a fight and a social gathering. Mr. Britling's
goal-keeper could be heard shouting, "I can't see the ball! _Lift your
feet!_" The crowded conflict lurched towards the goal posts. "My shin!"
cried Mr. Manning. "No, you _don't!_"

Whack, but again whack!

Whack! "Ah! _would_ you?" Whack.

"Goal!" cried the side-car gentleman.

"Goal!" cried the Britling boys....

Mr. Manning, as goal-keeper, went to recover the ball, but one of the
Britling boys politely anticipated him.

The crowd became inactive, and then began to drif