The Carslake team walked off the field and into the pavilion, looking tired and dispirited, with the feeling that worse things were in store for them in the second half. Public opinion was the same, for it was obvious that Carslake's were tired out and worn down by the pace, while the school felt as fresh as ever when they thought of the lead they had gained over their opponents.
"If it weren't just for a few—Duane, Kitty and Bertha," remarked one of the team, "we'd be all over them, and they wouldn't have a look in. Those three are as hard as nails, I know, but even they won't be able to keep us out much longer. It'll be a walk-over next half."
Meanwhile, in the pavilion, the younger members of the Carslake team dropped down wearily upon the nearest seats.
"Oh dear," gasped Daisy, "I feel nearly dead-beat."
"And I've got the stitch," added France, dismally, for the artist, good though her intentions might be, was not in the form to stand a gruelling match like this.
When Duane entered everybody seemed to glance spontaneously towards her, as the central figure in the whole affair. After all, it was she who was responsible for it.
She stood looking at them for a moment in silence. Her pale, rather sallow-complexioned face was flushed, her hair for once was ruffled and untidy; her light grey eyes shone vividly in their dark setting.
"Hallo!" she greeted them. "What are you all looking so dismal about?"
"We're not looking dismal exactly," protested Peggy, "but—well—they'll walk over us in the second half, Duane."
"And why on earth," demanded Duane, "should they walk over us?"