god. On Sunday there's to be a match between the two Gods on the Letna. Besides their footballs, both clubs will bring hand-grenades, and the Slavia will also have machine-guns and the Sparta a twelve-centimetre gun. There's a terriffic rush for tickets. The supporters of both clubs will be armed. Rejzek, believe me, there will be a shindy! I bet Zeus will win."
"Mhm," said Mr. Rejzek, "but now you might have a look at the post."
"Well, I don't care," cried Cyril Keval. "A man can get used even to a God, can't he? What's the latest from the Press Bureau?"
"Nothing special," growled Mr. Rejzek. "Bloodshed at demonstrations in Rome. They're going for each other in Ulster—you know, the Irish Catholics. The St. Kilda agreement is being repudiated all round. Pogroms in Budapest; a schism in France—the Waldenses have bobbed up there again, and the Anabaptists in Münster. At Bologna an Anti-Pope has been elected, one Father Martin of the Barefoot Friars. And so on. Nothing of local interest. Have a look at the letters, will you."
Cyril Keval stopped talking and began opening the letters. There were a few hundred of them, but he had hardly read half a dozen when he was off once more.
"Look here, Rejzek," he began, "it's the same
