quietly pushed the ball before him for a few yards, then kicked it far
over the boy's head, and followed it up like an antelope. Mivins
depended for success on his almost superhuman activity. His tall, slight
frame could not stand the shocks of his comrades, but no one could equal
or come near to him in speed, and he was quite an adept at dodging a
_charge_, and allowing his opponent to rush far past the ball by the
force of his own momentum. Such a charge did Peter Grim make at him at
this moment.

"Starboard hard!" yelled Davie Summers, as he observed his master's
danger.

"Starboard it is!" replied Mivins, and leaping aside to avoid the shock,
he allowed Grim to pass. Grim knew his man, however, and had held
himself in hand, so that in a moment he pulled up and was following
close on his heels.

"It's an ill wind that blows no good," cried one of the crew, towards
whose foot the ball rolled, as he quietly kicked it into the centre of
the mass of men. Grim and Mivins turned back, and for a time looked on
at the general _mêlée_ that ensued. It seemed as though the ball must
inevitably be crushed among them as they struggled and kicked hither and
thither for five minutes, in their vain efforts to get a kick; and
during those few exciting moments many tremendous kicks, aimed at the
ball, took effect upon shins, and many shouts of glee terminated in
yells of anguish.

"It can't last much longer!" screamed the cook, his face streaming with
perspiration and beaming with glee, as he danced round the outside of
the circle. "There it goes!"