“Wot a jolly game football is, ain’t it?” said Davie, seating himself on a hummock, and still panting hard.
“Ay, boy, that’s jist what it is. The only objiction I have agin it is that it makes ye a’most kick the left leg clane off yer body.”
“Why don’t you kick with your right leg, then, stupid, like other people?” enquired Summers.
“Why don’t I, is it? Troth, then, I don’t know for sartin. Me father lost his left leg at the great battle o’ the Nile, and I’ve sometimes thought that had somethin’ to do wid it; but then me mother was lame o’ the right leg intirely, and wint about wid a crutch, so I can’t make out how it was, d’ye see?”
“Look out, Pat,” exclaimed Summers, starting up, “here comes the ball.”
As he spoke, the football came skimming over the ice towards the spot on which they stood, with about thirty of the men running at full speed and shouting like maniacs after it.
“That’s your sort, my hearties! another like that and it’s home! Pitch into it, Mivins. You’re the boy for me. Now, then, Grim, trip him up! Hallo, Buzzby, you bluff-bowed Dutchman, luff! luff! or I’ll stave in your ribs! Mind your eye, Mizzle, there’s Green, he’ll be into your larboard quarter in no time. Hurrah! Mivins, up in the air with it. Kick, boy, kick like a spanker boom in a hurricane!”
Such were a few of the expressions that showered like hail round the men as they rushed hither and thither after the ball. And here we may remark that the crew of the Dolphin played football in a somewhat different style from the way in which that noble game is played by boys in England. Sides, indeed, were chosen, and boundaries were marked out, but very little if any attention was paid to such secondary matters! To kick the ball, and keep on kicking it in front of his companions, was the ambition of each man; and so long as he could get a kick at it that caused it to fly from the ground like a cannon-shot, little regard was had by anyone to the direction in which it was propelled. But, of course, in this effort to get a kick, the men soon became scattered over the field, and ever and anon the ball would fall between two men, who rushed at it simultaneously from opposite directions. The inevitable result was a collision, by which both men were suddenly and violently arrested in their career. But generally the shock resulted in one of the men being sent staggering backwards, and the other getting the kick. When the two were pretty equally matched, both were usually, as they expressed it, “brought up all standing”, in which case a short scuffle ensued, as each endeavoured to trip up the heels of his adversary. To prevent undue violence in such struggles, a rule was laid down that hands were not to be used on any account. They might use their feet, legs, shoulders, and elbows, but not their hands.
In such rough play the men were more equally matched than might have been expected, for the want of weight among the smaller men was often more than counterbalanced by their activity; and frequently a sturdy little fellow launched himself so vigorously against a heavy tar as to send him rolling head over heels on the ice. This was not always the case, however, and few ventured to come into collision with Peter Grim, whose activity was on a par with his immense size. Buzzby contented himself with galloping on the outskirts of the fight, and putting in a kick when fortune sent the ball in his way. In this species of warfare he was supported by the fat cook, whose oily carcass could neither stand the shocks nor keep up with the pace of his messmates. Mizzle was a particularly energetic man in his way, however, and frequently kicked with such good-will that he missed the ball altogether, and the tremendous swing of his leg lifted him from the ice, and laid him sprawling on his back.
“Look out ahead!” shouted Green, the carpenter’s mate; “there’s a sail bearing down on your larboard bow.”