“I say,” said the Captain of the Archangels, trotting up, “are you hurt, Lutyens? We’ll wait if you care to put in a substitute. I wish—I mean—the fact is, you fellows deserve this game if any team does. Wish we could give you a man, or some of our ponies—or something.”
“You ’re awfully good, but we’ll play it to a finish, I think.”
The Captain of the Archangels stared for a little. “That’s not half bad,” he said, and went back to his own side, while Lutyens borrowed a scarf from one of his native officers and made a sling of it. Then an Archangel galloped up with a big bath-sponge, and advised Lutyens to put it under his armpit to ease his shoulder, and between them they tied up his left arm scientifically; and one of the native officers leaped forward with four long glasses that fizzed and bubbled.
The team looked at Lutyens piteously, and he nodded. It was the last quarter, and nothing would matter after that. They drank out the dark golden drink, and wiped their moustaches, and things looked more hopeful.
The Maltese Cat had put his nose into the front of Lutyens’ shirt and was trying to say how sorry he was.
“He knows,” said Lutyens, proudly. “The beggar knows. I’ve played him without a bridle before now—for fun.”
“It’s no fun now,” said Powell. “But we haven’t a decent substitute.”
“No,” said Lutyens. “It’s the last quarter, and we’ve got to make our goal and win. I’ll trust The Cat.”
“If you fall this time, you’ll suffer a little,” said Macnamara.
“I’ll trust The Cat,” said Lutyens.