His voice cracking on the high note, he took an immense slab of vanilla
chocolate as a remedy for hoarseness.

"Who scored for Day's?" asked Clowes.

"Strachan. Rand-Brown let him through from their twenty-five. You never
saw anything so rotten as Rand-Brown. He doesn't take his passes, and
Strachan gets past him every time."

"Is Strachan playing on the wing?"

Strachan was the first fifteen full-back.

"Yes. They've put young Bassett back instead of him. Sey-_mour's_.
Buck up, Seymour's. We-ell played! There, did you ever see anything
like it?" he broke off disgustedly.

The Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to the
back and passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was a
perfect pass, except that it came at his head instead of his chest.
Nobody with any pretensions to decent play should have missed it.
Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat. The ball struck his hands
and bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for a scrum, and a
certain try was lost.

From the scrum the Seymour's forwards broke away to the goal-line,
where they were pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence had
been pierced, and Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across the
line. The enthusiast standing by Clowes expended the last relics of his