Africa Calling.

This is the spirit in which we gird up our slacks, tighten our kicking-straps and prepare to defend our patriotism against the friendly invasion of the Springbokian sprinters and seventeen-stoners. In our secret places, where the religion of Rugby is practised as a holy rite, the flawless flower of our football fields are pushing down brick walls, tackling charging steam-rollers, practising the cult of celerity in all its branches and generally preparing to defend our honour and glory with the oragious oval of bull's skin. There will be no moaning at the bar if we go down to Davy Jones. But there will be much “shouting” and tossing of the tocsin should we prove that we are even better than we suspected. “Up boys and at 'em!”