The lookers-on were in different case. They were to a man
devoted--nay, frenzied--adherents of the rival code. In less spacious
days they had surged in their thousands every Saturday afternoon to
Ibrox, or Tynecastle, or Parkhead, there to yell themselves into
convulsions--now exhorting a friend to hit some one a kick on the
nose, now recommending the foe to play the game, now hoarsely
consigning the referee to perdition. To these, Rugby Football--the
greatest of all manly games--was a mere name. Their attitude when the
officers appeared upon the field was one of indulgent superiority--the
sort of superiority that a brawny pitman exhibits when his Platoon
Commander steps down into a trench to lend a hand with the digging.

But in five minutes their mouths were agape with scandalised
astonishment; in ten, the heavens were rent with their protesting
cries. Accustomed to see football played with the feet, and to demand
with one voice the instant execution of any player (on the other side)
who laid so much as a finger upon the ball or the man who was playing
it, the exhibition of savage and promiscuous brutality to which their
superior officers now treated them shocked the assembled spectators
to the roots of their sensitive souls. Howls of virtuous indignation
burst forth upon all sides.

When the three-quarter-backs brought off a brilliant passing run,
there were stern cries of "Haands, there, referee!" When Bobby Little
stopped an ugly rush by hurling himself on the ball, the supporters
of the other Brigade greeted his heroic devotion with yells of
execration. When Angus M'Lachlan saved a certain try by tackling a
speedy wing three-quarter low and bringing him down with a crash, a
hundred voices demanded his removal from the field. And, when Mr.