Ponder said, 'There is a condition attached to the bequest. It's in the small print, sir.'
'Oh, I never bother with small print, Stibbons!'
'I do, sir. It says: "... and thys shall follow as long as the University shall enter a team in the game of foot-the-ball or Poore Boys' Funne".'
'Porree boy's funny?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
'That's ridiculous!' said Ridcully.
'Ridiculous or not, Archchancellor, that is the condition of the bequest.'
'But we stopped taking part in that years ago,' said Ridcully. 'Mobs in the streets, kicking and punching and yelling... and they were the players! Mark you, the spectators were nearly as bad! There were hundreds of men in a team! A game could go on for days! That's why it was stopped.'
'Actually, it has never been stopped as such, Archchancellor,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'We stopped, yes, and so did the guilds. It was no longer a game for gentlemen.'
'Nevertheless,' said the Master of The Traditions, running a finger down the page, 'such are the terms. There are all sorts of other conditions. Oh, dear. Oh, calamity. Oh, surely not... '
His lips moved silently as he read on. The room craned as one neck.
'Well, out with it, man!' roared Ridcully. 'I think I'd like to check a few things,' said the Master of The Traditions. 'I would not wish to worry you unduly.' He glanced down. 'Oh, hells' bells!'
'What are you talking about, man?'
'Well, it looks as though - No, it would be unfair to spoil your evening, Archchancellor,' Ponder protested. 'I must be reading this wrongly. He surely can't mean - Oh, good heavens... '
'In a nutshell, please, Stibbons,' growled Ridcully. 'I believe I am the Archchancellor of this university? I'm sure it says so on my door.'
'Of course, Archchancellor, but it would be quite wrong of me to - '
'I appreciate that you do not wish to spoil my evening, sir,' said Ridcully. 'But I would not hesitate to spoil your day tomorrow. With that in mind, what the hells are you talking about?'
'Er, it would appear, Archchancellor, that, er... When was the last game we took part in, do you know?'
'Anyone?' said Ridcully to the room in general. A mumbled discussion produced a consensus on the theme of 'Around twenty years, give or take.'
'Give or take what, exactly?' said Ponder, who hated this kind of thing.
'Oh, you know. Something of that order. In the general vicinity of, so to speak. Round about then. You know.'
'About?' said Ponder. 'Can we be more precise?'
'Why?'
'Because if the university hasn't played in the Poor Boys' Fun for a period of twenty years or more, the bequest reverts to any surviving relatives of Archchancellor Bigger.'
'But it's banned, man!' the Archchancellor insisted.
'Er, not as such. It's common knowledge that Lord Vetinari doesn't like it, but I understand that if the games are outside the city centre and confined to the back streets, the Watch turns a blind eye. Since I would imagine that the supporters and players easily outnumber the entire Watch payroll, I suppose it is better than having to turn a broken nose.'
'That's quite a neat turn of phrase there, Mister Stibbons,' said Ridcully. 'I'm quite surprised at you.'
'Thank you, Archchancellor,' said Ponder. He had in fact got it from a leader in the Times, which the wizards did not like much because it either did not print what they said or printed what they said with embarrassing accuracy.
Emboldened, he added, 'I should point out, though, that under UU law, Archchancellor, a ban doesn't matter. Wizards are not supposed to take notice of such a ban. We are not subject to mundane law.'
'Of course. But nevertheless it is generally convenient to acknowledge the civil power,' said Ridcully, speaking like a man choosing his words with such care that he was metaphorically taking some of them outside to look at them more closely in daylight.
The wizards nodded. What they had heard was: 'Vetinari may have his little foibles, but he's the sanest man we've had on the throne in centuries, he leaves us alone, and you never know what he's got up his sleeve.' You couldn't argue with that.