He stood so close that, so to speak, he stood right on the ball. It fell dead, it didn't travel an inch. As I made my fruitless effort, and was still poised upon one leg, placing his hand against my chest, he pushed me over backwards. As I fell I saw him smile—just as I had seen him smile when he had baulked me just before.
I didn't feel like smiling. I felt still less like smiling when, as I yet lay sprawling, Rivers, pouncing on the ball, dropped it back into the centre of the field. He was still standing by me when I regained my feet He volunteered an observation.
"Lucky for us you muffed that kick."
"Where's Joyce?" I asked
"Where's who?"
"Joyce."
He stared at me.
"I don't know what you're driving at. I think you fellows must have got Joyce on the brain."
He returned to his place in the field. I returned to mine. I had an affectionate greeting from Giffard.
"That's the second chance you've thrown away. Whatever made you muff that kick?"
"Giffard," I asked, "do you think I'm going mad?"
"I should think you've gone."
I could not—it seems ridiculous, but I could not ask if he had seen Joyce. It was so evident that he had not. And yet, if I had seen him, he must have seen him too. As he suggested—I must have gone mad!
The play was getting pretty rough, the ground was getting pretty heavy. We had churned it into a regular quagmire. Sometimes we went above the
