"Good kid," said the old Lubber; "if your body was half as big as your brain, you'd be a corker."
He was seen talking to Archie; and Archie was nodding his handsome head, as if in accord. Before the ball was kicked off, word was passed round to play on the defensive. These tactics may seem elementary to the modern player, but five-and-twenty years ago football on both sides of the Atlantic was go-as-you-please—a succession of wild and unpremeditated rushes, with much brilliant individual work, but lacking in strategy and organisation.
Within a few minutes of resuming play, the Lubber stupidly interposed his ankle between a boot and the ball, forgetting that his skull was the most invulnerable part of his person, with the result that Billy's lost his services and weight when they were most needed. Archie, too, was slightly disabled and more than slightly dismayed. Bashan's pressed their advantage with vigour.
"It's all right," Mark panted.
Archie had the ball and was away, his side streaming after him. Down the field he sped, faster and faster. The biggest Bashanite met him shoulder to shoulder in full career. The Bashanite reeled over backwards; Archie hardly swerved. On and on strode that glorious figure in the violet-and-black stripes. Only one more Bashanite stood between him and the goal; but he, crafty as Ulysses, was quick to perceive what must be done. The ball rolled between him and the all-conquering Archie. He rushed forward. Archie crashed into him. The Bashanite fell, but the ball sailed towards a group of battered gladiators, who, having abandoned pursuit, were awaiting just such a piece of good fortune as now befell them.
"Get back!" yelled the fry.
Billy's got back in the nick of time, mad with disappointment. The Bashanites retreated, cursing. In a minute "Time" would be called. At this moment Mark darted out of a scrimmage dribbling the ball.
A second later he turned his back upon three big fellows who were within ten feet of him, knowing that they would meet with irresistible force on the spot where he was standing, and knowing—who better?—-his own feebleness of bone and sinew. He turned and gave "yards."
Jim looked down.
When Jim looked up a pile of figures lay upon the wet, mud-stained grass, and the ball was in the hands of a sure and safe player. And then, as a roar of applause ascended from the throats of everybody on the ground, the word "Time" fell like a thunderbolt.