Into the _melee_. The pressure in there is tremendous, yet neither side
gives an inch. Just on the skirts of the throng, with bent bodies and
hands on knees, stand the cool little quarter-backs, watching the
gasping giants, and also keeping a keen eye upon each other. Let the
ball emerge near one of these, and he will whip it up and be ten paces
off before those in the "maul" even know that it is gone. Behind them
again are the halves, alert and watchful, while the back, with his hands
in his pockets, has an easy consciousness that he will have plenty of
warning before the ball can pass the four good men who stand between the
"maul" and himself.

Now the dense throng sways a little backwards and forwards. An inch is
lost and an inch is gained. The crowd roar with delight. "Mauled,
Scotland!" "Mauled England!" "England!" "Scotland!" The shouting
would stir the blood of the mildest mortal that ever breathed.
Kate Harston stands in the carriage, rosy with excitement and enjoyment.
Her heart is all with the wearers of the rose, in spite of the presence
of her old play-mate in the opposite ranks. The doctor is as much
delighted as the youngest man on the ground, and the cabman waves his
arms and shouts in a highly indecorous fashion. The two pounds'
difference in weight is beginning to tell. The English sway back a yard
or two. A blue coat emerges among the white ones. He has fought his
way through, but has left the ball behind him, so he dashes round and
puts his weight behind it once more. There is a last upheaval, the maul
is split in two, and through the rent come the redoubtable Scotch
forwards with the ball amongst them. Their solid phalanx has scattered
the English like spray to right and left. There is no one in front of
them, no one but a single little man, almost a boy in size and weight.
Surely he cannot hope to stop the tremendous rush. The ball is a few
yards in advance of the leading Scot when he springs forward at it.