But where were their adversaries? A few impatient moments slowly
passed, and then from one corner of the ground there rose a second
cheer, which rippled down the long line of onlookers and swelled into a
mighty shout as the Scotchmen vaulted over the barrier into the arena.
It was a nice question for connoisseurs in physical beauty as to which
team had the best of it in physique. The Northerners in their blue
jerseys, with a thistle upon their breasts, were a sturdy, hard-bitten
lot, averaging a couple of pounds more in weight than their opponents.
The latter were, perhaps, more regularly and symmetrically built, and
were pronounced by experts to be the faster team, but there was a
massive, gaunt look about the Scotch forwards which promised well for
their endurance. Indeed, it was on their forwards that they principally
relied. The presence of three such players as Buller, Evans, and
Jackson made the English exceptionally strong behind, but they had no
men in front who were individually so strong and fast as Miller, Watts,
or Grey. Dimsdale and Garraway, the Scotch half-backs, and Tookey, the
quarter, whose blazing red head was a very oriflamme wherever the
struggle waxed hottest, were the best men that the Northerners could
boast of behind.

The English had won the choice of goals, and elected to play with what
slight wind there was at their backs. A small thing may turn the scale
between two evenly balanced teams. Evans, the captain, placed the ball
in front of him upon the ground, with his men lined all along on either
side, as eager as hounds in leash. Some fifty yards in front of him,
about the place where the ball would drop, the blue-vested Scots
gathered in a sullen crowd. There was a sharp ring from a bell, a
murmur of excitement from the crowd. Evans took two quick steps
forward, and the yellow ball flew swift and straight, as if it had been
shot from a cannon, right into the expectant group in front of him.