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.