Like a swarm of locusts they are down on it, and quickly every blade of grass disappears, "kicked off" as if by magic.
Old walking-sticks, pieces of lath or old coats and waistcoats serve as goal-posts.

Touch-lines they have none, one playing-ground runs across the other, and a dozen teams are soon hard at it.

They have no caps to distinguish them, no jerseys or knickers of bright hues.

There are no "flannelled fools" among them, but quickly there are plenty of "muddied oafs." Trousers much too long are rolled up, coats and vests are dispensed with, braces are loosed and serve as belts.

There is running to and fro, mud, and poor old footballs are kicked hither and thither.
They knock, kick and shoulder each other, their bare arms and faces are coated with mud, they fall over the ball and over each other.