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 goodwill 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 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 melee 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!”

As he spoke, the ball flew out of the circle like a shell from a mortar.  Unfortunately it went directly over Mizzle’s head.  Before he could wink he went down before them, and the rushing mass of men passed over him like a mountain torrent over a blade of grass.