A baby could not have dropped it.
And as the Rainhurst man came at him and brought him down on his side, he saw the flying figure of Terence darting over the line and grounding the ball between the posts.
At that moment he would have given his kingdom to have stayed where he fell upon the grass, and to have lain in peace until the aching in his weary limbs had passed.
Yet he scrambled up. The air was thick with waving hats. He shouted to Smythe, but in the din no one could hear his voice.
So he signalled the order, and Smythe went slowly to the mark and took the kick. In a deadly hush the ball rose into the air and dropped truly and gracefully over the bar.
In the turmoil that followed the referee’s no-side whistle was scarcely heard. Rouse looked round hopelessly. There was no way out. Wave upon wave of shouting Harley maniacs were bearing down on him from every side.
He was seized and shaken, found himself lifted up by the legs. He tried to break free. It was utterly useless. So at last he looked at them wearily in turn.
And then he smiled.
For this one day he had been their captain. Nothing mattered now.