"Cab Oss can use his weight," said the All Highest.
"First good thing he's done," said Mr. Satellite Albert. The right full back, it seemed, had charged like a tiger at the center forward of the enemy and had laid him low.
"Good on yer, Ginger," cried the proletariat.
After this episode, the game grew rough. And this was in Ginger's favor. Outclassed he might be in pace and skill, but no human soul could outclass Ginger in sheer fighting quality when his back was to the wall. Before long the stricken lay around him.
"It isn't footba'," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom. "You can't call it footba', but it's the right game to play under the circumstances."
It began to seem that the enemy would never score the goal it so much desired. The goalkeeper kept up his form in quite a marvelous way, parrying shot after shot of every range and pace from all points of the compass. He was a man inspired. And the right full back was truly terrible now. He had ceased to trouble about the ball, but wherever he saw a red-shirted adversary he brought him down and fell on him. Ginger did not achieve any particular feat of arms, but his moral effect was considerable.
The shades of night were falling, but not a single goal had been scored by either party. The goalkeeper grew more and more wonderful, the right full back was more like a lion than ever.
"Blame my cats," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, "that Ginger's mustard. But they'll never stan' him in a League match. What do you say, Davis?"
Mr. Davis, a small buttoned-up man in a knitted comforter and a brown bowler hat, had given far fewer opinions than his peers. He was a man of deeds. He had played for England v. Scotland in his distinguished youth, but no one would have guessed it to look at him.
"Quite agree, Gus," said Mr. Davis, in a measured tone. "Football is not a game for Ginger. Not the man we are looking for. But that goalkeeper..."