Part 8 (1/2)
”Ah! then, it bates the owld country intirely, it does,” replied O'Riley, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
It is needless to say that O'Riley was an Irishman. We have not mentioned him until now, because up to this time he had not done anything to distinguish himself beyond his messmates; but on this particular day O'Riley's star was in the ascendant, and fortune seemed to have singled him out as an object of her special attention. He was a short man, and a broad man, and a particularly _rugged_ man--so to speak. He was all angles and corners. His hair stuck about his head in violently rigid and entangled tufts, rendering it a matter of wonder how anything in the shape of a hat could stick on. His brow was a countless ma.s.s of ever-varying wrinkles, which gave to his sly visage an aspect of humorous anxiety that was highly diverting--and all the more diverting when you came to know that the man had not a spark of anxiety in his composition, though he often said he had. His dress, like that of most Jack tars, was naturally rugged, and he contrived to make it more so than usual.
”An' it's hot, too, it is,” he continued, applying his kerchief again to his pate ”If it warn't for the ice we stand on, we'd be melted down, I do belave, like bits o' whale blubber.”
”Wot a jolly game football is, ain't it?” said Davie seating himself on a hummock, and still panting hard.
”Ay, boy, that's jist what it is. The only objiction I have agin it is, that it makes ye a'most kick the left leg clane off yer body.”
”Why don't you kick with your right leg, then, stupid, like other people?” inquired Summers.
”Why don't I, is it? Troth, then, I don't know for sartin. Me father lost his left leg at the great battle o' the Nile, and I've sometimes thought that had somethin' to do wid it. But then me mother was lame o'
the _right_ leg intirely, and wint about wid a crutch, so I can't make out how it was, d'ye see?”
”Look out, Pat,” exclaimed Summers, starting up, ”here comes the ball.”
As he spoke, the football came skimming over the ice towards the spot on which they stood, with about thirty of the men running at full speed and shouting like maniacs after it.
”That's your sort, my hearties! another like that and it's home! Pitch into it, Mivins. You're the boy for me! Now then, Grim, trip him up!
Hallo! Buzzby, you bluff-bowed Dutchman, luff! luff! or I'll stave in your ribs! Mind your eye, Mizzle! there's Green, he'll be into your larboard quarter in no time. Hurrah! Mivins, up in the air with it.
Kick, boy, kick like a spanker-boom in a hurricane!”
Such were a few of the expressions that showered like hail round the men as they rushed hither and thither after the ball. And here we may remark that the crew of the _Dolphin_ played football in a somewhat different style from the way in which that n.o.ble game is played by boys in England. Sides, indeed, were chosen, and boundaries were marked out, but very little, if any, attention was paid to such secondary matters! To kick the ball, and keep on kicking it in front of his companions, was the ambition of each man; and so long as he could get a kick at it that caused it to fly from the ground like a cannon-shot, little regard was had by any one to the direction in which it was propelled. But, of course, in this effort to get a kick, the men soon became scattered over the field, and ever and anon the ball would fall between two men, who rushed at it simultaneously from opposite directions. The inevitable result was a collision, by which both men were suddenly and violently arrested in their career. But generally the shock resulted in one of the men being sent staggering backwards, and the other getting the _kick_.
When the two were pretty equally matched, both were usually, as they expressed it, ”brought up all standing,” in which case a short scuffle ensued, as each endeavoured to trip up the heels of his adversary. To prevent undue violence in such struggles, a rule was laid down that hands were not to be used on any account. They might use their feet, legs, shoulders, and elbows, but not their hands.
In such rough play the men were more equally matched than might have been expected, for the want of weight among the smaller men was often more than counterbalanced by their activity, and frequently a st.u.r.dy little fellow launched himself so vigorously against a heavy tar as to send him rolling head over heels on the ice. This was not always the case, however, and few ventured to come into collision with Peter Grim, whose activity was on a par with his immense size. Buzzby contented himself with galloping on the outskirts of the fight, and putting in a kick when fortune sent the ball in his way. In this species of warfare he was supported by the fat cook, whose oily carca.s.s could neither stand the shocks nor keep up with the pace of his messmates. Mizzle was a particularly energetic man in his way, however, and frequently kicked with such goodwill that he missed the ball altogether, and the tremendous swing of his leg lifted him from the ice and laid him sprawling on his back.
”Look out ahead!” shouted Green, the carpenter's mate; ”there's a sail bearing down on your larboard bow.”
Mivins, who had the ball before him at the moment, saw his own satellite, Davie, coming down towards him with vicious intentions. He quietly pushed the ball before him for a few yards, then kicked it far over the boy's head, and followed it up like an antelope. Mivins depended for success on his almost superhuman activity. His tall, slight frame could not stand the shocks of his comrades, but no one could equal or come near to him in speed, and he was quite an adept at dodging a _charge_, and allowing his opponent to rush far past the ball by the force of his own momentum. Such a charge did Peter Grim make at him at this moment.
”Starboard hard!” yelled Davie Summers, as he observed his master's danger.
”Starboard it is!” replied Mivins, and leaping aside to avoid the shock, he allowed Grim to pa.s.s. Grim knew his man, however, and had held himself in hand, so that in a moment he pulled up and was following close on his heels.
”It's an ill wind that blows no good,” cried one of the crew, towards whose foot the ball rolled, as he quietly kicked it into the centre of the ma.s.s of men. Grim and Mivins turned back, and for a time looked on at the general _melee_ that ensued. It seemed as though the ball must inevitably be crushed among them as they struggled and kicked hither and thither for five minutes, in their vain efforts to get a kick; and during those few exciting moments many tremendous kicks, aimed at the ball, took effect upon s.h.i.+ns, and many shouts of glee terminated in yells of anguish.
”It can't last much longer!” screamed the cook, his face streaming with perspiration and beaming with glee, as he danced round the outside of the circle. ”There it goes!”
As he spoke, the ball flew out of the circle like a sh.e.l.l from a mortar.
Unfortunately it went directly over Mizzle's head. Before he could wink he went down before them, and the rus.h.i.+ng ma.s.s of men pa.s.sed over him like a mountain torrent over a blade of gra.s.s.
Meanwhile Mivins ran ahead of the others, and gave the ball a kick that nearly burst it, and down it came exactly between O'Riley and Grim, who chanced to be far ahead of the others. Grim dashed at it. ”Och! ye big villain,” muttered the Irishman to himself, as he put down his head and rushed against the carpenter like a battering-ram.
Big though he was, Grim staggered back from the impetuous shock, and O'Riley following up his advantage, kicked the ball in a side direction, away from every one except Buzzby, who happened to have been steering rather wildly over the field of ice. Buzzby, on being brought thus unexpectedly within reach of the ball, braced up his energies for a kick; but seeing O'Riley coming down towards him like a runaway locomotive, he pulled up, saying quietly to himself, ”Ye may take it all yer own way, lad; I'm too old a bird to go for to make my carca.s.s a buffer for a madcap like you to run agin.”