The match was over. Bashan's had tied Billy's.
But the eyes of the crowd rested on the pile in front of Bashan's goal. Three figures rose silently; the fourth lay face down in the mire. Archie touched his brother lightly.
"You're all right, old chap, aren't you?"
Mark did not answer. His arm was turned outward at a curious angle.
"Back," said Archie, as the two elevens surged forward. "Back!"
He faced them, terror-stricken, and Jim Corrance had never admired him so much nor liked him so well, because his strong voice trembled and his keen blue eyes were wet.
"Mark," he cried, kneeling down, "don't you hear me? Don't you hear me?" His voice broke. "My God!" he exclaimed, "he's dead!"
The face upturned to the chill November skies was of death's colour; the eyes stared glassily; the livid lips were parted in a grim smile heart-breaking to see. The two elevens formed a ring around the brothers and Billy, who had his fingers on Mark's pulse. Beyond this inner circle was the outer circle of spectators. One boy began to sneeze, and the silence had become so impressive that his sneeze seemed a personal affront, an unseemly violation. Archibald was crying as men cry—silently, with convulsive movements of the limbs.
Just then the school surgeon hurried up. Fortunately he was on the ground, but had retired with the Lubber to a distant bench, busy in bandaging that giant's ankle. Kneeling down, he laid his ear to the small blue-and-white striped chest.
"I can't feel any pulse," Billy growled.