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.