tator. It seemed that it was not really he, but his ghost
that was walking on to the field. Subconsciously he lined up with the
rest. The School side in their white jerseys, the Colts with their red
dragons, seemed miles away. Collins kicked off. Gordon did not know he
was playing. A roar of "House" rose from the touch-line. Involuntarily
he joined it, thinking himself a looker-on, then suddenly Livingstone,
the Buller's inside three-quarter, caught the ball and ran towards him.
At once Gordon was himself. He forgot the crowd on the touch-line,
forgot his nervousness, forgot everything except that he was playing for
the House, and somehow or other had to drive the ball over that line. He
crashed into Livingstone, and the pair rolled into touch. A cheer
rippled down the line. Gordon did not hear it.

_The Fernhurstian_ described this match as "perhaps the finest ever
witnessed on the School ground," and the reporter was not far wrong.
Certainly that first mad rush of the House forwards was the most
glorious moment in Gordon's football career. It was all so unexpected,
so essentially wonderful. On the touch-line Mansell shouted himself
hoarse. The cries of "House" completely drowned those of "School." For
the first quarter of an hour the School pack never got the ball out of
their half. It seemed that the House must score. Time after time, the
School were forced to touch down. Stewart was brought down just the
wrong side of the line. Lovelace performed prodigies of valour. A gloom
descended over Buller's. On the Masters' side of the line "the Bull"
fumed and ground his teeth: "Go low, Reice, you stinking little funk.
Get round, forwards, and shove; you are slacking, the lot of you. Buck
up, Philson." Up and down he stamped, cursing at his men. Lovelace could
hardly refrain from laughing.

"Now, lads," shouted Stewart, "fair or foul; shove the ball over the
line!" Like a sledge-hammer Gordon crashed into the scrum. Wilkinson was
in his light, but Gordon was seeing red, his feet stamped on Wilkinson,
and found the ball. His elbows swung viciously, as he cut his way
through the scrum. Then someone caught him by the ankle. He went down
hard. A boot caught him on the side of the head. He got up blind with
wrath. "Fight! Fight!" he yelled. The House grovel swarmed in; the
outhouse pack shivered for a moment, then gave way. Collins and Gordon
burst through, the ball at their toes; Wilkinson dashed across and dived
for the ball;