stopped dead. Putting his arms about me he held me as in a vice.
"Joyce!" I cried.
Before the word was out of my mouth half a dozen of their men had hold of the ball.
"Held! held!" they screamed.
"Down!" I gasped.
And it was down, with two or three of their men on top of me. They were packing the scrimmage before I had time to get fairly on my feet again.
"That was Joyce who collared me!" I exclaimed.
"Pack in! pack in!" shouted Mason from behind.
And they did pack in with a vengeance. Giffard had the ball. They were down on him; it was hammer and tongs. But through it all we stuck to the leather. They downed us, but not before we had passed it to a friend. Out of it came Giffard, sailing along as though he had not been swallowing mud in pailfuls. I thought he was clear—but no! He stopped short, and dropped the ball!—dropped it, as he stood there, from his two hands as though he were a baby! They asked no questions. They had it up; they were off with it, as though they meant to carry it home. They carried it, too, all the way—almost! It was in disagreeable propinquity to our goal by the time that it was held.
"Now then, Brixham, you've got it!"
That was what they cried.
"Steyning! Steyning! All together!"
That was what we answered. But though we did work all together, it was as much as we could manage.
"Where's Giffard?" bellowed Mason.
