Stuck in Hedge

He hurried as fast as his legs could carry him, a gentle trot in other words, and we watched as he approached the hedge. The lad was stuck and Fred, thankful for the chance to keep his hand in, hurled abuse at the lad instead. After a long and painful struggle the little boy fought his way through the undergrowth and fell, scratched and bloodied down onto the grass.
The football had moved into an aimless phase as the home team struggled without Fred's constant advice so I concentrated the commentary on the battle down at the hedge. The lad was standing now, wiping the mud from his trousers and explaining himself with eloquent gestures to Fred, who for once was listening attentively.
They shook hands and parted, the boy taking up a position behind the goal and Fred wandering back to his seat under our window.
'What was that all about Fred?' George wanted to know.
'It's all right,' Fred turned and assured him, 'he showed me his card - he's a scout for Sheffield Wednesday.'