"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.
Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of High Life below Stairs.
"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.
"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that every minute improves our chance, but if it goes on much longer," he added phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. My 'eart's weak, my lord."
This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it were brand-new, and received by the fags in a like spirit.
"Bless you, you've got no heart, Dumber. It's turned into tummy long ago," or, in scathing accents, "It's not your heart that's out of whack, Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What a pity you can't buy a new one!" and so on and so forth.
Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excitement began to shake the spectators. They felt it up and down their spinal columns; it formed itself into lumps in their throats; it gave one or two cramp in the calves of their legs; it reddened many cheeks and whitened as many more. The Caterpillar pulled out his watch.
"Three and a half minutes," he announced in a voice which fell like the crack of doom upon the silent crowd. If they could have cheered or chaffed! But the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried through a scrimmage, escaped to the right, slid out to the left, only to be returned whence it came. It seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and when kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if weighted by the ever-increasing burden of suspense....
"Now—now's your chance!" yelled the Manorites. To their flaming senses the ball appeared to be lying, a huge blurred sphere, upon the muddy grass; and the Elevens were stupidly staring at it. The Saints be praised! Some fellow can move. Who is it? The players, big and little, are so daubed with mud from head to foot as to be unrecognizable. Ah-h-h! It's young Verney.
"Good kid! Well played—I say, well played, well pla-a-a-a-yed!"