Rugby Riots.

Football! What fruity memories the word weaves in the mind grown moribund with meals and mathematics; memories of youth when, the world forgetting by the world forgot, you committed a larceny called “footy,” a distant and depraved relation of Rugby, which was perpetrated with your father's second-of-best “bun” as the casus belli, and two teams of at least twenty head each. Do you remember how, inflamed to the point of madness by the exploits of “Billy” Wallace and “Jimmy” Duncan, and further intoxicated by the possession of an alleged jersey, which suffered from advanced wooly aphis and moth-bites, you led your side through the hole in the fence, yelping like a mal-nourished man-eater? Do you not recollect how, as the riot progressed, members of the teams registered a proneness to ignore the ball and concentrate on the personal aspect of the the meeting, with the result that your father's second-grade “bun” (now a mere mess of pottage) lay forgotten beneath the hedge while the personnel proceeded to amend the rules of Rugby to their individual tastes, by force of arms, fists and teeth?