This was too much for Stansfield’s patience.
“Go up forward, for goodness’ sake,” he exclaimed, “if you must play the fool! I’ll go half-back myself.”
Loman obeyed like a lamb, only too glad to lose himself in the scrimmages and escape observation.
The match went on—worse and worse for Saint Dominic’s. Despite Stansfield’s gallant efforts at half-back (where he had never played before), despite Wraysford’s steady play in goal, the ball worked up nearer and nearer the Dominican lines.
The Landfield men were quick enough to see the weak point of their enemies, and make use of the discovery. They played fast and loose, giving the ball not a moment’s peace, and above all avoiding scrimmages. The Saint Dominic’s forwards were thus made practically useless, and the brunt of the encounter fell on the four or five players behind, and they were not equal to it.
The calamity comes at last. One of the Landfield men gets hold of the ball, and runs down hard along the touch-line. Forrester is the quarter-back that side, and gallant as the Fourth Form boy is, his big opponent runs over him as a mastiff runs over a terrier.
Stansfield, anticipating this, is ready himself at half-back, and it will go hard with him indeed if he does not collar his man. Alas! just as the Landfielder comes to close quarters, and the Saint Dominic’s captain grips him round the waist, the ball flies neatly back into the hands of another of the enemy, who, amid the shouts of his own men and the crowd, makes off with it like fury, with a clear field before him, and only Wraysford between him and the Dominican goal.
“Look-out behind there!”
No need of such a caution to a “back” like Wraysford. He is looking out, and has been looking out ever since the match began.
But if he had the eyes of an Argus, and the legs of an Atlas, he could not prevent that goal. For the Landfield man has no notion of coming to close quarters; he is their crack drop-kick, and would be an ass indeed if he did not employ his talent with such a chance as this. He only runs a short way. Then he slackens pace. Wraysford rushes forward in front, the pursuing host rush on behind, but every one sees how it will be. The fellow takes a deliberate drop-kick at the goal, and up flies the ball as true as a rocket, clean over the posts, as certain a goal as Saint Dominic’s ever lost! It was no use crying over spilt milk, and for the rest of the game Stansfield relaxed no efforts to stay the tide of defeat. And he succeeded too, for though the ball remained dangerously near the school goal, and once or twice slipped behind, the enemy were unable to make any addition to their score before “Time” was called.