Part 5 (2/2)
”Ay, that he will, yon chap,” agrees Mrs. Macgregor, standing up and trying to see what is going on.
”If The Don can hold for three minutes it will count two for his side; if Mooney and Carroll can get the ball away it will only count one,”
explained Lloyd.
About the three players struggling on the ground the crowd pours itself, yelling, urging, imploring, shrieking directions. Campbell stoops down over The Don and shouts into his ear. ”Hold on, Don. It means the game,” and The Don, lying on his back, winds his arms round the ball and sets himself to resist the efforts of Mooney and Carroll to get it away.
In vain the police and field censors try to keep back the crowd. They are swept helpless into the centre. Madder and wilder grows the tumult, while the referee stands, watch in hand, over the struggling three.
”Stop that choking, Carroll,” says Shock to the little quarter, who is gripping The Don hard about the throat.
”Get off, Mooney,” cries Campbell. ”Get off his chest with your knees.
Get off, I say, or I'll knock your head off.”
But Mooney persists in boring into The Don's stomach with his knees, tugging viciously at the ball. With a curse Campbell springs at him.
But as he springs a dozen hands reach for him. There is a wild rush of twenty men for each other's throats. Too close to strike they can only choke and scrag and hack each other fiercely. The policemen push in, threatening with their batons, and there is a prospect of a general fight when the referee's whistle goes. Time is up. The MAUL is over.
'Varsity has its two points. The score now stand even, four to four, with two minutes to play.
They lift The Don from the ground. His breath is coming in gasps and he is trembling with the tremendous exertions of the last three minutes.
”Time there!” calls out Shock, who has Balfour in his arms.
The smile is all gone from Shock's face. As he watches The Don struggling in deep gasps to recover his breath, for the first time in his football life he loses himself. He hands his friend to a couple of men standing near, strides over to Mooney, and catching him by the throat begins to shove him back through the crowd.
”You brute, you!” he roars. ”What kind of a game do you call that!
Jumping on a man when he is down, with your knees! For very little,” he continues, struggling to get his arm free from the men who are hanging on it, ”I would knock your face off.”
Men from both sides throw themselves upon Shock and his foe and tear them apart.
”That's all right, Shock,” cries The Don, laughing between his gasps, and Shock, suddenly coming to himself, slinks shamefacedly into the crowd.
”It is not often Hamish forgets himself in yon fas.h.i.+on,” says his mother, shaking her head. ”He must be sorely tried indeed,” she adds confidently.
”I am quite sure of it,” replies Helen. ”He always comes out smiling.”
And the old lady looks at her approvingly a moment, and says, ”Indeed, and you are right, la.s.sie.”
In a few minutes The Don is as fit as ever, and slapping Shock on the back says pleasantly, ”Come, along, old fire-eater. We've got to win this game yet,” and Shock goes off with him, still looking much ashamed.
McGill kicks from the twenty-five line, but before the scrimmage that follows is over time is called, with an even score.
The crowd streams on the field tumultuously enthusiastic over a game such as has never been seen on that campus. Both sides are eager to go on, and it is arranged that the time be extended half an hour.
Old Black gets Campbell aside and urges, ”Take ten minutes off and get your men into quarters.” Campbell takes his advice and the rubbers get vigorously to work at legs and loins, rubbing, sponging, slapping, until the men declare themselves fresh as ever.
”Not hurt, Don?” inquires Campbell anxiously.
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