After that it was give and take, and the game would not shift out of the Harley twenty-five. One high punt carried the ball out of the ruck, and Smythe came in from the wing and gathered it neatly. There was a quick expectant hush whilst he started away, and Terence was up alongside with safe hands ready for his pass. The ball jumped into his arms and he had it safely and was cutting with lowered head into the bunch of forwards who were hovering round him. A new shout of hope went up from the Harley side of the ground, but it was premature. The last to be seen of Terence was the vision of his body being dragged to earth by three men in grey and green, whilst the ball worked out into the open. Without delay those dangerous Rainhurst forwards, perfectly together, were round it in a herd. They were coming down-field with it at their toes as if it were merely a practice dribble. The sight of Coles darting into the picture, and flinging himself upon it, relieved anxiety for a moment, but he was somehow bundled out of the way and the pack came on. Rouse got ready again. The fellows on the touch-line saw him crouching for his spring and knew that he would never let them through. But in the tenseness of the moment their voices grew hushed and they could only wait. A sudden diversion saved the day. One hulking forward in the front rank of the Rainhurst pack had kicked the ball too hard and it had bounced out of reach. In a flash their chance had gone. Smythe came across their front at a sprint, gathered the ball with extended hands and carried it clear.