Surely never, in the annals of Rugby football, had any one run as Olva ran then.

Only now the Dublin back, and he, missing the apparent swerve to the right, clutched desperately at Olva's back, caught the buckle of his "shorts" and stood with the thing torn off in his hand.
He turned to pursue, but it was too late.

Olva had touched down behind the posts.
As he started back with the ball the wide world seemed to be crying and shouting, waving and screaming.
Against the dull grey sky far away an ancient cabman, standing on the top of his hansom, flourished his whip.
But as he stood there the shouting died--the crowds faded--alone there on the brown field with the white high clouds above him, Olva was conscious, only, of the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder..