The Wing Three-Quarter

Abstract

There was a white frost on the ground. The whole field was covered with it. Here and there the turf had been cut and bruised by the tramping of feet during the practice matches of the past fortnight. And the frost had formed these patches of muddy, torn earth into hard cakes, pointed and sharp. The earth resounded under the feet of the fellows as they rushed out from the pavilion. You could see the fellows’ breath, rushing from their mouths through the thin, freezing air in shooting columns, like puffs of stream from an engine.