Again the shouting started. Smythe had it safely and his wing was clear for twenty yards. He bent to his task and ran. One of the Rainhurst halfbacks was pounding behind him, but had not the pace to make the tackle. Smythe shook him off and looked for his own three-quarters. They had shaped out into position and were well in motion. Then the Rainhurst wing, whose duty was to mark Smythe, came in with a rush and he passed the ball; but as he spun sideways and was dragged down on to his back he had the horrifying vision vouchsafed him of another man in grey and green speeding away with that same ball on his chest, whilst Terence was pounding after him and reaching desperately for his jersey. There was one tense moment of doubt and fear, then the sprinting man had swerved past Lister and had only Rouse to beat. Just as before, Rouse came into the picture with a dashing enthusiasm and took his man at a gallop. The Rainhurst runner had no chance. In two seconds it was all over and Rouse was scrambling to his feet, whilst the school forwards, a badly bustled pack, came round and struggled for the ball. It came out and somebody fell on it, so that there followed another scrum. Again it worked loose on the Rainhurst side, but Coles smothered the lucky half before he could get it away, and not an inch was gained. At last Saville, seeing the ball bouncing before his eyes, grabbed at it and punted for touch. But the Rainhurst blood was up and they meant to score. The game had settled upon the Harley twenty-five and nothing could move it on. Rainhurst were too good. Every scrum went in their favour. They could do everything but cross the line. Time and again their threes seemed safely away and would have scored, had not there shone from out the Harley Fifteen a wondrous individuality of play that held them. There was always one who darted in at the critical moment and scooped the ball into his keeping or downed the man who had it. His instinct of defence was magical. He seemed ubiquitous and impregnable, and through Harley’s rough time he held together a team that were weary of tackling by an outstanding energy that made him a standard-bearer to his side. Wherever he could be seen at grips with the attacking host the Harley men rallied around him. He grew discoloured with mud and the bruises of continuous collision and became unlike himself, but so long as they could identify his shape the vast crowd never ceased to shout his name. And so when half time came and play stopped suddenly there was set upon the field a tableau. Yesterday’s captain stood unconquered upon his line, with his scratch team gathered round him, and the Rainhurst men were held. There came a gracious interval, and on to the field moved streams of enthusing Harleyans who clapped upon the back each member of the team that they could reach, whilst Rouse moved this way and that amongst his men, whispering words of counsel for the even greater battle that was to come.