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.