“Fourteen—seven—twenty-one,” came the voice from the tangle of legs. Allan did not hear the rest, for Merring was shouting:—
“Now!”
There was a frightful tangle of the elevens as Allan pressed the trigger, and, while his eyes still rested on the finder, there was an incredibly quick scattering of players, and five of the men, with big Barney in the midst of them, swung across his line of escape.
“Look out!” roared a voice.
Allan dropped, face down, over his camera, as he would have done over a ball.
He was prepared for the awful feet of Barney. A sound like low thunder was in his ears, he felt rather than saw a figure leap over him as he crowded close over the box; and the line had passed.
Then Merring was at his shoulder.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I had to drop or lose the camera.”
“Good play!” cried Merring. “It was a kind of touch-down!”