Nutt, the first to reach the stricken Macarona, looked up at Trev gravely. 'Both patellas dislocated,' he said. 'We'll need a couple of men to take him down to the Lady Sybil.'
The former Dean looked around at the clustered footballers. 'So, what happened here, Mister Shank?' he said as perspiration dripped off his chin.
Andy momentarily lifted a finger to his forelock.
'Well, sir, I was rushing forward according to the rules to tackle Mister Macarona and I had no idea at all that Jimmy the Spoon, here, had got exactly the same idea and was coming from a different direction and suddenly we were all there together going arse over tip, if you would excuse my Klatchian.'
Trev glowered.
The look on Andy's face was transparent. He was lying. He knew he was lying. He knew everyone else knew he was lying and he didn't care. In fact, he rather enjoyed the situation. Andy's boots looked heavy enough to moor a boat.
'They got 'im like the meat in a sandwich, sir,' Trev complained to the referee.
'Can you substantiate that, young man?'
'Well, you can see what's happened to the poor bugger.'
'Yes, but do you have any evidence of collusion?'
Trev went blank and Nutt supplied in a whisper, 'Can you prove it was a set-up?'
'Can anyone?' said the referee, looking around the players. No one could. Trev wondered how many might, were it not for the fact that Andy was standing there, innocent as a shark. 'I am the referee, gentlemen, and I can only referee what I see and I saw nothing.'
'Yes, because they made sure of that,' said Trev. 'Anyway, listen to the crowd. They all saw it!'
'Look! They've got boots on them that could strip bark,' Ridcully protested.
'Yes, indeed, Mustrum, I mean, sorry, captain, but as yet there are no rules about which boots should be worn and at the very least these are the boots that have been traditionally worn for the game of foot-the-ball.'
'But they are man traps!'
'I can certainly see what you are getting at, but what would you like me to do?' said Henry. 'I have a suspicion that if I cancel this match at this point you and I would not get out of here alive, because even if we ourselves did escape the wrath of the crowd, we would by no means escape the wrath of Vetinari. The game will continue. Unseen Academicals can play a substitute and I will, let me see - ' He pulled out a notebook. 'Ah, yes, I will award a free kick at the very point where this unfortunate incident took place. And may I add that I will look askance at any future "incidents". Mister Hoggett, I trust that you will make this clear to your team.'
'Blow that for a game of soldiers!' Trev yelled. 'They just took out our best player an' you're gonna let 'em walk away grinning?'
But the referee was, after all, the former Dean. A man used to head-to-head confrontations with Mustrum Ridcully. He gave Trev a chilly look and turned very deliberately to the Archchancellor and said, 'And I trust you, too, captain, will impress upon your team that my decisions are final. There will be a five-minute interlude for you to do this and can some of you fellows take poor Professor Macarona off the field and see if you can find some quack to look at him.'
A voice behind him bellowed, 'You have one right here, sir.' They turned. A figure slightly larger than life, wearing a top hat and carrying a small bag, nodded at them.
'Doctor Lawn,' said Ridcully. 'I wouldn't have expected to see you here.'
'Really?' said the doctor. 'Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Now some of you men drag him over to that corner and I'll take a look at him. I'll send my bill to you, shall I, Mustrum?'
'Wouldn't you like to take him somewhere nice and quiet?' said the referee.
'No fear! I want to keep my eye on the play.'
'They're gettin' away with it,' said Trev, as he walked back to the line. 'Everyone knows they're gettin' away with it.'
'We still have the rest of the team, Mister Trev,' said Nutt, lacing up his boots. He had, of course, made them himself. They looked like foot gloves. 'And me of course, I am the first substitute. I promise that I will do my best, Mister Trev.'
Thus far, it had been a rather boring afternoon for the Librarian after his one little moment in the sun. It really was rather dull between the goal posts and he was getting hungry and so was pleasantly surprised by the appearance of a large banana in front of the goal. It was later agreed that, in a footballing context, mysteriously appearing fruit should have been greeted with a certain amount of caution. But he was hungry, it was a banana and the metaphysics were sound. He ate it.
Glenda, up in the stand, wondered if she was the only one to have seen the startlingly yellow fruit in its trajectory and then saw, looking up at her from the crowd, with a big grin on her face, Mrs Atkinson, mother of Tosher, himself something of an unguided weapon. Anyone who had ever been in the Shove knew her as a perpetrator of all kinds of inventive assaults. She had always got away with it because no one in the Shove would hit an old lady, especially one standing next to Tosher.
'Excuse me,' said Glenda, standing up. 'I've got to get down there right now.'
'Not a chance, love,' said Pepe. 'It's shoulder-to-shoulder. A Shove and a half.'