Barrington kicked out on all sides, sending us backward. The bell rang for prayers then, and we had to go in.
The game the next evening was football. We went out to it as soon as tea was over, to the field by the river towards Vale Farm. I can’t tell much about its progress, except that the play seemed rougher and louder than usual. Once there was a regular skirmish: scores of feet kicking out at once; great struggling, pushing and shouting: and when the ball got off, and the tail after it in full hue and cry, one was left behind lying on the ground.
I don’t know why I turned my head back; it was the merest chance that I did so: and I saw Tod kneeling on the grass, raising the boy’s head.
“Holloa!” said I, running back. “Anything wrong? Who is it?”
It was little Hearn. He had his eyes shut. Tod did not speak.
“What’s the matter, Tod? Is he hurt?”
“Well, I think he’s hurt a little,” was Tod’s answer. “He has had a kick here.”
Tod touched the left temple with his finger, drawing it down as far as the back of the ear. It must have been a good wide kick, I thought.
“It has stunned him, poor little fellow. Can you get some water from the river, Johnny?”
“I could if I had anything to bring it in. It would leak out of my straw hat long before I got here.”