The curse of the Reckaviles

The Final for the Hospital Cup was being fought out between Guys and Barts, and the usual crowd of joyful medicos were making their way to the ground, dressed in every fantastic garb, ringing bells and waving hideous ear-splitting rattles. The crowd watched good humouredly, as here a coster’s cart passed with donkey and “Bill” and “Liza,” here the ex-Kaiser with carrots behind his ears, and Joan of Arc and Humpty-Dumpty, and clowns with balloons and Dilly and Dally, and the rest. The police had seen it all before, and shepherded them along with firmness and good temper.

The ground was in a state of pandemonium till the whistle blew, when silence fell on the spectators, as the teams got down to serious work.

Each was well balanced, but contained particular stars, the darlings of their supporters; here was Histon the international wing “three,” who had scored the only try for England in that great tussle with Ireland, and Blackett the Scottish forward whose name was terror.