“You were fine,” he said to each in turn, “but we haven’t scored yet.”
They nodded grimly, making their own resolve in secret, and so when the whistle blew again, and the ball was once more lifted into the air, it was Harley who started the attack.
The forwards, as if in an effort to make up for their clear defeat in the scrum, gathered the ball amongst them and took it away up-field with an all-devouring dash. For a little while the Rainhurst men were staggered. Harley made way by grim degrees towards their goal. Close up, Betteridge, who was long in the arm, contrived to reach the ball and toss it back over his head to the neighbourhood where the three-quarters were waiting eagerly. Terence jumped sideways and took it as it bounced; but a stalwart figure in grey and green was upon him before he could make away, and the chance was gone. Yet Harley would not be denied. The great shouting from their fellows on the touch-line kept them at it. Again and again the ball was taken forward at a pell-mell rush, only to be suddenly gathered and punted back by Rainhurst.
And at these times it was Rouse who nipped in and fielded it as it fell, so that great punts into touch, far up, kept the school at the right end.
The suddenness with which Rainhurst turned their defence into attack proved the greatness of their side. For a full ten minutes they had been hard pressed, and no one knew how it was that their stand-off half found that wonderful opening. Yet in some way he had caught the Harley men all on one side of the ground. A high punt carried the ball towards him and he took it on the run, and kicked down the field. It dropped midway between Rouse and himself, and he had just that extra turn of speed that enabled him to get to it first. He held it for a bare moment whilst he swerved, then he had kicked again, high over Rouse’s head, and was following up as before. The luck was all his. The try depended on the bounce of the ball, and it bounced straight into his hands. Afterwards it was only a question of pace; he had that pace and he scored far out.
Slowly and solemnly Harley lined up under the posts. They heard the frenzied cheering of the Rainhurst boys and bore it patiently. But Rouse said never a word, and only those who took a covert glance at him knew what must be passing in his mind.
The place kick went wide, and so the game restarted. And now the shouting for Harley, hoarse with strain, seemed, nevertheless, redoubled into a roar of pleading. Just once Rouse looked towards them. Then he turned back to the game and was pacing slowly across the field, staring with set eyes at the scramble for the ball as it came out from touch. Time passed. Fellows on the line began to glance nervously at their watches, but he seemed to take no count of it. He just moved always behind his team, nursing each movement with consummate understanding and calling to them gently by name when the play opened up.
At last their opportunity came.
Almost upon the Rainhurst twenty-five a free kick was awarded Harley. The shouting died away. The crowded touch-line suddenly grew still. Rouse moved forward. He looked round for Coles. Coles was the best drop-kick in the school. It mattered not to Rouse that this might prove the winning effort of the match, and that if so the certainty existed that Coles would know how to turn it to good account. The school came first. He called to Coles:
“Try for goal.”