This grim remark was a concession to the fact that the Britannia was already fiercely attacking the Rovers' goal, and that Ginger, under great pressure, had been compelled to give a corner kick. From the word "go" it was a terrific set-to. Up and down, down and up, ding dong, hammer and tongs, east, west, north and south of that turfless, sand-strewn area surged the tide of battle. Every yard of ground was yielded at the point of death; at least so it seemed to fifty thousand spectators and six mounted constables who could hardly breathe for excitement. "Durn me, if that Ginger ain't top weight," hoarsely remarked the chairman of the club to Mr. Satellite Albert. Ginger had just laid out the center forward of the enemy when a goal seemed sure. The advantage of the proceeding was twofold. In the first place, the Rovers' citadel was still uncaptured, in spite of the fact that thirty-five thousand persons had as good as yielded it to the enemy, fifteen thousand of whom were already hooting with delight at receiving it; while in the second place, Ginger's fellow warriors, who were gasping and holding their sides, were provided with a "breather." "If Britannia would only play footba', it wouldn't matter," roared the Rovers' chairman in a bull's voice above the din. Five minutes' grace, the fruit of Ginger's timely action, was much appreciated by his comrades, who were able to recover their wind while the enemy's center forward, supine and attended by the club trainer with a sponge and a cordial, recovered his. Nevertheless, the referee, a cock-sparrow in knickerbockers, who tried to spoil a fine game by stopping it without visible reason for doing so, felt he could do no less than caution Ginger for dangerous play. "Turn him off." Fifteen thousand Duckingfielders besought the referee. "Turn him off. Dirty dog!" "Good old Ginger! Played, Ginger! Good on yer, Ginger!" proclaimed thirty-five thousand stalwart Blackhamptonians. Had Ginger received marching orders thirty-five thousand Blackhamptonians would know the reason why. "Don't know what footba' is at Duckingfill," said Mr. Augustus Higginbottom, glaring around with a truculence awful to behold. But they were at it again. Quarter was neither asked nor given. Duckingfield Britannia couldn't play for rock cakes, they couldn't play for toffee and bananas, but had not the Sailor in goal performed one of his miracles just before the referee blew his whistle for half time, the Rovers would have been a goal down at that sorely needed interval. As it was, when, at the end of forty-five minutes' pounding, the twenty-two warriors limped off the ground to the strain of "Hearts of Oak," rendered with extraordinary vehemence by the Blackhampton Excelsior Prize Brass Band, no goal had been scored, and fifty thousand persons and six mounted policemen appeared for the time being reasonably content.