"Joyce!" I shouted. "You aren't ashamed to show your face, I hope?"
"Joyce!" they replied, in mockery. "You aren't bashful, Joyce?"
He was not there. Or we couldn't find him, at any rate. We scrutinised each member of the team; it was really absurd to suppose that I could mistake any of them for Joyce. There was not the slightest likeness.
Dryall appealed to the referee.
"Are you sure nobody's sneaked off the field?"
"Stuff!" he said. "I've been following the game all the time, and know every man who's playing, and Joyce hasn't been upon the ground."
"As for his playing three-quarter, Pendleton, Marshall, and I have been playing three-quarter all the afternoon, and I don't think that either of us is very much like Joyce."
This was Tom Wilson.
"You've been playing four three-quarters since we crossed over."
"Bosh! "said Wilson.
That was good, as though I hadn't seen the four with my own eyes.
"Play!" sang out the referee. "Don't waste any more time."
We were at it again. We might be mystified. There was something about the whole affair which was certainly mysterious to me. But we did not intend to be beaten.
"They're only playing three three-quarters now," said Giffard.
So they were. That was plain enough. I wondered
