"We are going to have a f-fight," he said.
Within ten minutes Bashan's had kicked a second goal almost as "flukey" as the first. Stupor spread like a London fog. Billy's was demoralised. At times bad luck paralyses mind and muscles. On such occasions the man of finer clay than his fellows seeks and finds opportunity. Mark, for instance, rose to and above this emergency. He, the smallest player on the ground, the one, physically speaking, least well equipped for the task, thrust himself into the breach between promise and performance. In the brief interval, after the second goal had been kicked, he went up to Archie and the Lubber, who were standing apart, inert and speechless.
"I s-say," stammered Mark, "you must change your tactics."
The Lubber raised his heavy head.
"Shut up, Mark!" said Archibald.
"I won't," said Mark. "These Bashanites haven't a chance if you d-d-do the right thing."
Archie scowled; but the Lubber, who had reason to respect Mark's abilities as a scholar, growled: "Well, what is the right thing?"
"The Bashanites are like a lot of helots, drunk with success. If we go canny, they'll play themselves out. Then we can trample on 'em. Don't attack a victorious enemy! Defence is our game. Pull our fellows together! Tell 'em to keep c-cool and quiet for ten minutes; close in the top sides; keep the whole eleven in front of our g-goal; forbid individual effort till you give the word!"
"By Jove! he's right," said the Lubber. Archie kicked off for the second time; and the Bashanites fell on the ball, kicked it hard, and charged furiously. Met by a solid phalanx, hurled back, bruised and broken—they charged again and again, panting and bellowing; but Billy's held together. Doubtless Billy himself fathomed the plan of campaign, for when the fry of his house began to complain, when cries of "Follow up! Follow up!" were heard above the yells of the Bashanites, when shrill voices screamed, "Now's your chance!" or, in disconsolate wail, "Why don't you run, you idiot!" or, in still more poignant accents, "Good Lord! what is the matter with the fools?"—then, above these heart-breaking cries, boomed a big bass voice:
"Steady, Billy's! Well played! Steady! Steady there!"