He knew that he had no business where he was, the newly-imported rotter who ought to have been minding his nets, the miserable failure who so lately had sat on a camp-stool and sniffed at smelling-salts. He felt certain that Saunders sulked behind in utter scandalisation, but he did not care. Still inside the Bluecaster goal, the curate gaped in open-mouthed astonishment, but he had forgotten the curate. He had his five minutes. The gods had heard his prayer, and not allowed him to pass away shamed. “He that shall endure to the end.... Arise, Elijah, for thou hast a long journey before thee.... Forty days and forty nights shalt thou go.” Not every part of him seemed to be working at once, but some of him would get there. His feet were still moving, and his wrist, but his eyes--“Night falleth round me, O Lord!” Saunders would say he hadn’t kept his place--Hoofy Saunders--but Harriet would be pleased, anyhow, and that was the chief thing. Here were the backs, Johnson and Co.--“Go, return upon thy way! Then did Elijah the prophet break forth like a fire”--_that_ got him all right, and it was quite simple! If he fell down suddenly, would his feet still go on running, running? They seemed to know all about it, more than he did, but he would get away from here soon and lie down in Harriet’s parlour. “Though thousands languish and fall beside thee”--nasty E♯ that for the tenors in the fifty-seventh bar! There was a rocking-chair, too, and a kitten, and somebody with a black face. “Through darkness riseth light, light for the upright”--awful jar for Saunders, his getting away like this! Ah, but what came after? “Shall the dead arise, the dead arise and praise thee? Lord, our Creator, how excellent thy name is! My flesh also shall rest in hope.” The Witham left back came out steadily and with discretion, and Wiggie’s twist carried the ball round him as easily as a dancer spins a pirouette, leaving him staring. The right sprang to meet the attack, and he passed out to the Pony, who passed back just as the racing left crossed them a second time. The Witham halves were coming up, thudding and panting, but the three were not to be caught. The right back sprang again, shouting to his partner, and Wiggie passed to the Most Kind, who dribbled cleverly to the line as if meaning to shoot, and then, with a lightning turn, centred back to the stranger. Wiggie took the ball daintily on his stick, Saunders or no Saunders, meeting the final rush of the recovered left with the same bewildering trick, and, as the goalkeeper danced and slashed, aimed delicately past her into the net. The whistle blew.