Part 4

I have examined the apparatus for the play you have so kindly sent over,--the great leathern bag of wind which is kicked, "_les_ Goalpoles", and the regulations for the playing of the game, and have seen your fifteen professional County "kicksmen" engage,--I shudder as I recall the terrible sight,--in a contest, horrible, murderous, and demoniacal, with an equal number of my unhappy compatriots, alas! in their enthusiasm and _élan_, ignorant of the deadly struggle that awaited them in the game in which they were about innocently to join. To witness the savage rush of your professional kicksmen was terrifying, and when, in displaying "_le scrimmage_", they scattered, with the kicks of their legs, my fainting compatriots, who fell lamed and wounded in all directions, I said to myself, this "Foote-Balle" is not a pastime, it is an encounter of wild beasts, "_un vrai carnage_," fit to be played, not by civilised sporting gentlemen, but by cannibals.

But let me explain that it is not the kick to which I object, for is not _le coup de pied_ the national defence of France? Indeed, in your own fist contest in "Le Boxe-Match," is not to deliver a kick in the jaw of your antagonist considered a meritorious _coup_, showing great skill in the boxeman? And do not our own _garçons de collège_ kick a _confrère_ when he is "down," and point to the circumstance with a legitimate pride and satisfaction? No, it is not _le coup de pied_ which makes horrible "Le Foote-Balle," but the conspiracy organised of the kicksmen--_Les Demidos_ (the 'alf-backs), _Les En Avants_ (the Forwards), and the "Goal-keepers"--all to kick the leathern bag of wind at once, and so produce a murderous _mêlée_ in which arms, legs, ribs, thighs, necks, and spines are all broken together, and may be heard simultaneously cracking by any of the terror-struck but helpless spectators who are watching the ghastly contest.

Viewing the game under this aspect, you will not be surprised to hear that my Committee have, as they did in dealing with "Le Cricquette," revised the rules and regulations for the playing of your "Foote-Balle," so as to suit it to the tastes and requirements of the rising generation of our Modern France. I cannot at present furnish you with full details of the suggested modifications, but I may inform you that it has been unanimously decided that the "Balle," which is to be of "some light, airy, floating material, and three times its present size," is not to be touched by the foot at all, but struck lightly by the palm of the hand, and thus wafted harmlessly, with a smart smack, over the heads of the combatants.

As to costume, the game is to be played in white satin bed-room slippers, with (as a protection in the event, spite every possible precaution, of "_le scrimmage_" arising) feather pillows strapped over the knees and chest. It is calculated by our Committee that the savage proclivities of the game, as fostered by the terrible rules of your murderous "Rugby Association," will be thus, in some measure, counteracted.

Hoping soon to hear from you on the subject of your _Courses d'Eau_, as I shall doubtless have some suggestions to make in reference to the conduct of your aquatic contests, receive, Monsieur, the assurance of my most distinguished consideration,

THE SECRETARY TO THE CONGRESS.

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PROFESSIONALS OF THE FLOOR AND FIELD.

Exactly the same, though not so in name, Are dancing and football "pros." For both money make and salaries take For supporting the ball with their toes.

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ETON FOOTBALL

(_Special Report by Dumb-Crambo Junior._)

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THAT FOOT-BALL

_An Athletic Father's Lament._

What was it made me cricket snub, And force my seven sons to sub- sidize a local "Rugby" Club? That Foot-ball!

Yet, what first drew from me a sigh, When Tom, my eldest, missed a "try," But got instead a broken thigh? That Foot-ball!

What in my second, stalwart Jack, Caused some inside machine to crack, And kept him ten months on his back--? That Foot-ball!

What brought my third, unhappy Ted, To fade and sink, and keep his bed, And finally go off his head?-- That Foot-ball!

My fourth and fifth, poor John and Jim, What made the sight of one so dim? What made the other lack a limb? That Foot-ball!

Then Frank, my sixth, who cannot touch The ground unaided by a crutch, Alas! of what had he too much? That Foot-ball!

The seventh ends the mournful line, Poor Stephen with his fractured spine, A debt owe these good sons of mine, That Foot-ball!

And as we pass the street-boys cry, "Look at them cripples!" I but sigh, "You're right, my friends. But would you fly A lot like ours; oh, do not try That Foot-ball!"

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_Miss Dulcie_ (_meditatively_). "Do you play football much, uncle?"]

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ETON FOOTBALL

(_By Dumb-Crambo Junior._)

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FOOT-BALL À LA MODE

[Hardly a week passes without our hearing of one or more dangerous accidents at football.]

A manly game it is, I think, Although in private be it spoken, While at a scrimmage I don't shrink, That bones may be too often broken. I snapped my clavicle last week, Just like the rib of an umbrella; And sprained my ankle, not to speak Of something wrong with my _patella_.

Last season, too, my leg I broke, And lay at home an idle dreamer, It's not considered quite a joke To contemplate a broken _femur_. And when, despite the doctor's hints, Again at foot-ball I had tussles, I found myself once more in splints, With damaged gastronomic muscles.

Some three times every week my head, Is cut, contused, or sorely shaken; My friends expect me brought home dead, But up to now I've saved my bacon. But what are broken bones, my boys, Compared with noble recreation? The scrimmages and all the joys Of Rugby or Association!

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OPEN LETTER TO A PAIR OF FOOTBALL BOOTS

(_With acknowledgments to Mr. C. B. Fry in the "Daily Express"_)

DEAR OLD PALS,--I want to speak to you seriously and as man to man, because you're not mere dead hide, are you? No, no, you are intelligent, sentient soles, and to be treated as such by every player.

Ah! booties, booties, you little beauties, what a lot you mean to us, don't you? and how hardly we use you.

I've known men to take you off after a game, hurl you--as Jove hurled his thunderbolts--into a corner of the pav. and there leave you till you are next required.

Ah! old men, that's not right, is it? How would we great machines of bone, muscle, and nerve-centre (ah! those nerve-centres, what tricky things they are!), how would we be for the next match if we were treated like that? Pretty stiff and stale, eh, old booties?

Now, look here, when we come in after a hard, slogging game, our bodies and the grey matter in our brains thoroughly exhausted, immediately we've had our bath, our rub-down, and our cup of steaming hot Hercubos (I find Hercubos the finest thing to keep fit on during a hard season) we must turn our attention to you, booties.

First, out from our little bag must come our piece of clean, sweet selvyt. With it all that nasty black slime that gets into your pores and makes you crack must be wiped off. Now, before a good blazing fire of coal--not coke, mind, the fumes of a coke fire pale and de-oxygenate the red corpuscles of our blood, you know--we must carefully warm you till you are ripe to receive a real good dousing of our Porpo (I find Porpo the finest thing for keeping boots soft and pliable).

Finally, with a white silk handkerchief we must give you a soft polishing, and there you are, sweet and trim against our next match. Every morning you may be sure we will, like Boreas, drive away the clouds of dust that collect on you.

And then there are the laces to attend to. Oh, yes, your laces are like our nerve-fibres, the little threads that keep the whole big body taut and sound. They, too, must have a good rubbing of Porpo and a rest if they need it.

Ah! and won't you repay our trouble, booties, when next we slip you on? How tightly you will clasp us just above the tubercles of our tibiæ, how firmly you will grip our pliant toes, how you will help us to send the ball swishing--low and swift--into the well-tarred net!

Good-night, booties.

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THE "BALL OF THE SEASON."--Foot-ball.

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APPROPRIATE FOOTBALL FIXTURE FOR THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.--A match against Guy's.

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A DERBY DIALOGUE

SCENE--_In Town._ JONES _meets_ BROWN.

_Jones._ Going to Epsom?

_Brown._ No, I think not. Fact is, the place gets duller year by year. The train has knocked the fun out of the road.

_Jones._ Such a waste of time. Why go in a crowd to see some horses race, when you can read all about it in the evening papers?

_Brown._ Just so. No fun. No excitement. And the Downs are wretched if it rains or snows.

_Jones._ Certainly. The luncheon, too, is all very well; but, after all, it spoils one's dinner.

_Brown._ Distinctly. And champagne at two o'clock is premature.

_Jones._ And lobster-salad undoubtedly indigestible. So it's much better not to go to the Derby--in spite of the luncheon.

_Brown._ Yes,--in spite of the luncheon.

(_Two hours pass. Scene changes to Epsom._)

_Jones._ Hullo! You here?

_Brown._ Hullo! And if it comes to that, you here, too?

_Jones._ Well, I really found so little doing in town that I thought I might be here as well as anywhere else.

_Brown._ Just my case. Not that there's much to see or do. Silly as usual.

_Jones._ Quite. Always said the Derby was a fraud. But I am afraid, my dear fellow, I must hurry away, as I have got to get back to my party for luncheon.

_Brown._ So have I.

[Exeunt severally.

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MAXIM FOR THE DERBY DAY

There's many a slip 'Twixt the race and the tip.

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HOW TO WIN THE DERBY

(_By one who has all but done it._)

Take great care in purchasing a really good colt. Don't let expense stand in your way, but be sure you get for money money's worth.

Obtain the most experienced trainer in the market, and confide your colt to his care. But, at the same time, let him have the advantage of your personal encouragement and the opinion of those of your sporting friends upon whose judgment you can place reliance.

When the day of the great race draws near, secure the most reliable jockey and every other advantage that you can obtain for your valuable animal.

Then, having taken every precaution to win the Derby, why--win it!

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ON THE COURSE.--_Angelina._ What do they mean, dear, by the Outside Ring?

_Edwin._ Oh! that's the place where we always back outsiders. A splendid institution!

[_So it was, till Edwin fell among gentlemen from Wales._

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AT THE CLOSE OF THE RACING SEASON.--_Owner (to friend, pointing to disappointing colt)._ There he is, as well bred as any horse in the world, but can't win a race. Now what's to be done with him?

_Friend (suddenly inspired)._ Harness the beast in front of a motor-car. He'll _have_ to travel, then.

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REAL AUTUMN HANDY-CAP.--A deerstalker.

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VERY RACY.--_Q._ When a parent gives his son the "straight tip" about a race, what vegetable does he recall to one's mind?

_A._ Pa ('s)-snip, of course.

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RACY SKETCHES

(_By D. Crambo, Junior_)

AND

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AT NEWMARKET.--_Lady Plongère (to Sir Charles Hamidoot)._ Oh! Sir Charles, please put me a tenner each way on the favourite.

_Sir Charles._ But will you repay me the money laid out?

_Lady P. (sweetly)._ Of course I will, if I win.

[_Sir C. forgets to execute the commission._

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AMUSEMENTS FOR ASCOT

(_Provided for the better sex_)

After taking infinite trouble to secure a dream of a dress, to wait expectantly to see whether it will rain or keep up.

After arriving on the course to find one's only duchess monopolised by the Buckingham-Browns, to dismay of all semi-outsiders.

Between the races to notice one's hated rivals in the sacred enclosure, to which one has no admittance.

At luncheon, to contrast the men of this year who have remained at home with those of last season who are now at the front.

And--perhaps safest of all--to leave the doubts and fears, the heart-burnings and disappointment of the meeting to others, and to learn all about Ascot by reading the papers.

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THE PREVAILING PASSION.--_Father_ (_reading newspaper_). I see another Rugby man has been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. That's the third Rugby man in succession.

_Son_ (_a football enthusiast_). Well, I think it is time one of the Association had a turn.

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.