'He's all right. You'll live for ever, won't you, Connie?' said Marcus Felstead. His head was being pumped up and down by an unknown hand. As he surfaced, his gaze took in an extensive area of mud stretching away to the incredibly distant posts. Then his forehead was brought down almost to his knees. Up again. Fred Slater he saw was resting his sixteen stones, something he did at every opportunity. Down. His knees. The mud. One stocking was down. His tie-up hung loose round his ankle. It was always difficult preserving a balance between support and strangulation of the veins. But it was worth it. Once the mud hardened among the long black hairs, it was the devil's own job to get it off. Up again. He resisted the next downward stroke. 'Why do you do that, anyway?' asked Marcus interestedly. 'I don't know,' said a Welsh voice. 'It's what they always do, isn't it? It seems to bloody well work.'

'You all right then, Connie?'

Connon slowly got up with assistance from the Welshman whom he now recognized as Arthur Evans, his captain.

'I think so,' he said. 'What happened?'

'It was that big bald bastard in their second row,' said Arthur. 'Never you mind. I'll fix him.' There was a deprecating little cough from the referee who was lurking behind Connon.

'I think we must restart.'

Connon shook his head. There was a dull ache above his left ear. Marcus was rather blurred.

'I think I'd better have a few minutes off, Arthur.'

'You do that, boyo. Here, Marcus, you give him a hand while I sort this lot out. Not that it matters much when you only get twelve of the sods turning up in the first place.'

Marcus slipped Connon's arm over his shoulder.

'Come along, my boy. We'll deposit you in the bath before the rest of this filthy lot get in.' They slowly made their way to the wooden hut which served as a pavilion.