t in front of his companions, was
the ambition of each man; and so long as he could get a kick at it that
caused it to fly from the ground like a cannon-shot, little regard was
had by anyone to the direction in which it was propelled. But, of
course, in this effort to get a kick, the men soon became scattered over
the field, and ever and anon the ball would fall between two men, who
rushed at it simultaneously from opposite directions. The inevitable
result was a collision, by which both men were suddenly and violently
arrested in their career. But generally the shock resulted in one of
the men being sent staggering backwards, and the other getting the
_kick_. When the two were pretty equally matched, both were usually, as
they expressed it, "brought up all standing", in which case a short
scuffle ensued, as each endeavoured to trip up the heels of his
adversary. To prevent undue violence in such struggles, a rule was laid
down that hands were not to be used on any account. They might use
their feet, legs, shoulders, and elbows, but not their hands.

In such rough play the men were more equally matched than might have
been expected, for the want of weight among the smaller men was often
more than counterbalanced by their activity; and frequently a sturdy
little fellow launched himself so vigorously against a heavy tar as to
send him rolling head over heels on the ice. This was not always the
case, however, and few ventured to come into collision with Peter Grim,
whose activity was on a par with his immense size. Buzzby contented
himself with galloping on the outskirts of the fight, and putting in a
kick when fortune sent the ball in his way. In this species of warfare
he was supported by the fat cook, whose oily carcass could neither stand
the shocks nor keep up with the pace of his messmates. Mizzle was a
particularly energetic man in his way, however, and frequently kicked
with such good-will that he missed the ball altogether, and the
tremendous swing of his leg lifted him from the ice, and laid him
sprawling on his back.

"Look out ahead!" shouted Green, the carpenter's mate; "there's a sail
bearing down on your larboard bow."

Mivins, who had the ball before him at the moment, saw his own
satellite, Davie, coming down towards him with vicious intentions. He
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