For a moment there was grasping and turmoil among the Scotchmen.
Then from the crowd emerged Grey, the great Glasgow forward, the ball
tucked well under his arm, his head down, running like the wind, with
his nine forwards in a dense clump behind him, ready to bear down all
opposition, while the other five followed more slowly, covering a wider
stretch of ground. He met the Englishmen who had started full cry after
the ball the moment that their captain had kicked it. The first hurled
himself upon him. Grey, without slackening his pace, swerved slightly,
and he missed him. The second he passed in the same way, but the third
caught quickly at his legs, and the Scot flew head over heels and was
promptly collared. Not much use collaring him now! In the very act of
falling he had thrown the ball behind him. Gordon, of Paisley, caught
it and bore it on a dozen yards, when he was seized and knocked down,
but not before he had bequeathed his trust to another, who struggled
manfully for some paces before he too was brought to the ground.
This pretty piece of "passing" had recovered for the Scotch all the
advantage lost by the English kick-off, and was greeted by roars of
applause from the crowd.

And now there is a "maul" or "scrimmage." Was there ever another race
which did such things and called it play! Twenty young men, so blended
and inextricably mixed that no one could assign the various arms and
legs to their respective owners, are straining every muscle and fibre of
their bodies against each other, and yet are so well balanced that the
dense clump of humanity stands absolutely motionless. In the centre is
an inextricable chaos where shoulders heave and heads rise and fall. At
the edges are a fringe of legs--legs in an extreme state of tension--
ever pawing for a firmer foothold, and apparently completely independent
of the rest of their owners, whose heads and bodies have bored their way