“It’s all right,” said I; “she’s not hurt.”
Whereupon Annie most inconsiderately leaned up against a post, clapped her hands to her heart, and went or threatened to go off into hysterics. And there was I, a poor unprotected male, left to face the squalling of two infant female children and a full-grown female nurserymaid!
“Look here,” said I, appealingly, “Mamie’s soaking wet. You’d better take her and dry her, before she gets her death of cold.”
This appeal had the desired effect. It stopped the nurse’s spasms and let loose her tongue.
“Oh dear, oh my! And I told her not to go through the gate. Oh, you naughty girl you; and you. Miss Gwen, for letting her do it. Come in directly, you little hussies!”
It struck me as grossly unfair of Annie; but I did not venture in her present state of mind to protest, for fear she should call me hussy too. I followed indoors, somewhat guiltily, at the tail of the procession, feeling myself in a very unpleasant situation, in which I would not on any account be caught by Redwood’s mother or by Redwood himself. To my delight, on the floor of the hall, where Annie had dropped it, lay the belt, at which I sprang greedily, and not waiting to say thank you, or put in a word for the doomed infants, which would have been quite inaudible in the volume of Annie’s philippics, I saved myself (as the Frenchman says), and ran at racing speed with my prize back to the school field.
To my mortification I found the match had just begun, and it would be impossible to deliver my missive till half-time. What would the captain think of me? Would he suspect me of having dawdled to buy sweets, or look over the bridge, or gossip with a chum? I would not for anything it had happened, and felt not at all amiably disposed to Miss Mamie, as the inconsiderate cause of my delay.
However, there was nothing for it but to wait. I resolved not to put myself into the clutches of the Philosophers till my mission was discharged, for fear of accident; so I seated myself on one of the pavilion steps and watched the play.
It was evidently a hot match for a scratch one. As far as I could make out, the remnants of last season’s Fifteen, amounting to eleven veterans only, were playing the next Fifteen, who, having the best of the wind, were giving a dangerously good account of themselves. They were acute enough to make all the use they could of the favouring element by keeping open order and kicking whenever they had the chance, whereas of course the other side played a tight game, and ran with the ball. Even for a novice like myself, it was interesting to watch a contest of this kind. The Fifteen evidently hoped to rush the thing and carry their goal before half-time deprived them of the wind, whereas the Eleven were mainly concerned to keep on the defensive and risk nothing by over-haste.
Among the veterans I could distinguish the big form of Redwood, always close to the ball, and near him with a shudder I recognised Crofter working hard, while hovering on the wing of the scrimmage was the genial Pridgin, looking as if he would fain be in bed, but, when the time for action came, making it very uncomfortable for the enemy. On the other side I was not long in finding out Tempest, with the glow of enthusiasm on his cheek as now and again he broke through the ruck and sent the ball into quarters. Wales, too, was there, spick and span as usual, playing neatly and effectively, and withal elegantly.