the play—we couldn't get across their line. Although I say it, we all put in some first-rate work. We never played better in our lives. We all had run after run, the passing was as accurate as if it had been mechanical, and yet we could not do the trick. Time after time, just as we were almost in, one of their men put a stop to our little game, and spoilt us. The funny part of the business was that, either owing to the fog, or to our stupidity, we could not make up our minds which of their men it was.
At last I spotted him. Mason had been held nearly on their goal line. They were playing their usual game of driving us back in the scrimmage, when the ball broke through. I took it I passed to Mason. I thought he was behind, when—he was collared and thrown.
"Joyce!" I cried. "Why, I thought that you weren't playing."
"What are you talking about?" asked one of their men. "Joyce isn't playing."
I stared.
"Not playing! Why, it was he who collared Mason."
"Stuff!"
I did not think the man was particularly civil. It was certainly an odd mistake which I had made. I was just behind Mason when he was collared, and I saw the face of the man who collared him. I could have sworn it was Frank Joyce!
"Who was that who downed you just now?" I asked of Mason, directly I had the chance.
"Their half-back."
