# The Seen and the Unseen/The Fifteenth Man
### VI. THE FIFTEENTH MAN

THE STORY OF A RUGBY MATCH
IT was not until we were actually in the field, and were about to begin to play, that I learnt that the Brixham men had come one short It seemed that one of their men had been playing in a match the week before—in a hard frost, if you please! and, getting pitched on to his head, had broken his skull nearly into two clean halves. That is the worst of playing in a frost; you are nearly sure to come to grief. Not to ordinary grief, either, but a regular cracker. It was hard lines on the Brixham team. Some men always are getting themselves smashed to pieces just as a big match is due! The man's name was Joyce, Frank Joyce. He played half-back for Brixham, and for the county too—so you may be sure Lance didn't care to lose him. Still, they couldn't go and drag the man out of the hospital with a hole in his head big enough to put your fist into. They had tried to get a man to take his place, but at the last moment the substitute had failed to show.
"If we can't beat them—fifteen to their fourteen!—I think we'd better go in for challenging girls' ​schools. Last year they beat us, but this year, as we've one man to the good, perhaps we might manage to pull it off."
That's how Mason talked to us, as if we wanted them to win! Although they were only fourteen men, they could play. I don't think I ever saw a team who were stronger in their forwards. Lance, their captain, kicked off; Mason, our chief, returned. Then one of their men, getting the leather, tried a run. We downed him, a scrimmage was formed, then, before we knew it, they were rushing the ball across the field. When it did show, I was on it like a flash. I passed to Mason. But he was collared almost before he had a chance to start. There was another turn at scrimmaging, and lively work it was, especially for us who had the pleasure of looking on. So, when again I got a sight of it, I didn't lose much time. I had it up, and I was off. I didn't pass; I tried a run upon my own account I thought that I was clear away. I had passed the forwards; I thought that I had passed the field, when, suddenly, someone sprang at me, out of the fog—it was a little thick, you know—caught me round the waist, lifted me off my feet, and dropped me on my back. That spoilt it! Before I had a chance of passing they were all on top of me. And again the ball was in the scrimmage.
When I returned to my place behind I looked to see who it was had collared me. The fellow, I told myself, was one of their half-backs. Yet, when I looked at their halves, I couldn't make up my mind which of them it was.
Try how we could—although we had the best of ​the play—we couldn't get across their line. Although I say it, we all put in some first-rate work. We never played better in our lives. We all had run after run, the passing was as accurate as if it had been mechanical, and yet we could not do the trick. Time after time, just as we were almost in, one of their men put a stop to our little game, and spoilt us. The funny part of the business was that, either owing to the fog, or to our stupidity, we could not make up our minds which of their men it was.
At last I spotted him. Mason had been held nearly on their goal line. They were playing their usual game of driving us back in the scrimmage, when the ball broke through. I took it I passed to Mason. I thought he was behind, when—he was collared and thrown.
"Joyce!" I cried. "Why, I thought that you weren't playing."
"What are you talking about?" asked one of their men. "Joyce isn't playing."
I stared.
"Not playing! Why, it was he who collared Mason."
"Stuff!"
I did not think the man was particularly civil. It was certainly an odd mistake which I had made. I was just behind Mason when he was collared, and I saw the face of the man who collared him. I could have sworn it was Frank Joyce!
"Who was that who downed you just now?" I asked of Mason, directly I had the chance.
"Their half-back."
​Their half-back! Their halves were Tom Wilson and Granger. How could I have mistaken either of them for Joyce?
A little later Giffard was puzzled.
"One of their fellows plays a thundering good game, but, do you know, I can't make out which one of them it is."
"Do you mean the fellow who keeps collaring."
"That's the man!"
The curious part of it was that I never saw the man except when he was collaring.
"The next time," said Giffard, when, for about the sixth time, he had been on the point of scoring, "if I don't get in, I'll know the reason why. I'll kill that man."
It was all very well to talk about our killing him. It looked very much more like his killing us. Mason passed the word that if there was anything like a chance we were to drop. The chance came immediately afterwards. They muffed somehow in trying to pass. Blaine got the leather. He started to run.
"Drop," yelled Mason.
In that fog, and from where Blaine was, dropping a goal was out of the question. He tried the next best thing—he tried to drop into touch. But the attempt was a failure. The kick was a bad one—the ball was as heavy as lead, so that there was not much kick in it—and as it was coming down one of their men, appearing right on the spot, caught it, dropped a drop which was a drop, sent the ball right over our heads, and as near as a toucher over the bar.
​Just then the whistle sounded.
"Do you know," declared Ingall, as we were crossing over, "I believe they're playing fifteen men."
Mason scoffed.
"Do you think, without giving us notice, they would play fifteen when they told us they were only playing fourteen?"
"Hanged if I don't count them!" persisted Ingall.
He did, and we all did. We faced round and reckoned them up. There were only fourteen, unless one was slinking out of sight somewhere in the dim recesses of the fog, which seemed scarcely probable. Still Ingfall seemed dissatisfied.
"They're playing four three-quarters," whispered Giffard, when the game restarted.
So they were—Wheeler, Pendleton, Marshall, and another. Who the fourth man was I couldn't make out He was a big, strapping fellow, I could see that; but the play was so fast that more than that I couldn't see.
"Who is the fourth man?"
"Don't know; can't see his face. It's so confoundedly foggy!"
It was foggy; but still, of course, it was not foggy enough to render a man's features indistinguishable at the distance of only a few feet. All the same, somehow or other he managed to keep his face concealed from us. While Giffard and I had been whispering they had been packing in. The ball broke out our side. I had it I tried to run. Instantly I saw that fourth three-quarter rush at me. As he came I saw his face. I was so amazed that I ​stopped dead. Putting his arms about me he held me as in a vice.
"Joyce!" I cried.
Before the word was out of my mouth half a dozen of their men had hold of the ball.
"Held! held!" they screamed.
"Down!" I gasped.
And it was down, with two or three of their men on top of me. They were packing the scrimmage before I had time to get fairly on my feet again.
"That was Joyce who collared me!" I exclaimed.
"Pack in! pack in!" shouted Mason from behind.
And they did pack in with a vengeance. Giffard had the ball. They were down on him; it was hammer and tongs. But through it all we stuck to the leather. They downed us, but not before we had passed it to a friend. Out of it came Giffard, sailing along as though he had not been swallowing mud in pailfuls. I thought he was clear—but no! He stopped short, and dropped the ball!—dropped it, as he stood there, from his two hands as though he were a baby! They asked no questions. They had it up; they were off with it, as though they meant to carry it home. They carried it, too, all the way—almost! It was in disagreeable propinquity to our goal by the time that it was held.
"Now then, Brixham, you've got it!"
That was what they cried.
"Steyning! Steyning! All together!"
That was what we answered. But though we did work all together, it was as much as we could manage.
"Where's Giffard?" bellowed Mason.
​My impression was that he had remained like a sign-post rooted to the ground. I had seen him standing motionless after he had dropped the ball, and even as the Brixham men rushed past him. But just then he put in an appearance.
"I protest!" he cried.
"What about?" asked Mason.
"What do they mean by pretending they're not playing Frank Joyce when all the time they are?"
"Oh, confound Frank Joyce! Play up, do. You've done your best to give them the game already. Steady, Steyning, steady. Left, there, left Centre, steady!"
We were steady. We were more than steady. Steadiness alone would not have saved us. We all played forward. At last, somehow, we got the ball back into something like the middle of the field. Giffard kept whispering to me all the time, even in the hottest of the rush.
"What lies, pretending that they're not playing Joyce!" Here he had a discussion with the ball, mostly on his knees. "Humbug about his being in the hospital!"
We had another chance. Out of the turmoil, Mason was flying off with a lead. It was the first clear start he had that day. When he has got that it is catch him who catch can! As he pelted off the fog, which kept coming and going, all at once grew thicker. He had passed all their men. Of ours, I was the nearest to him. It looked all the world to a china orange that we were going to score at last, when, to my disgust, he reeled, seemed to give a sort of spring, and then fell right over on to his ​back! I did not understand how he had managed to do it, but I supposed that he had slipped in the mud. Before I could get within passing distance the Brixham men were on us, and the ball was down.
"I thought you'd done it that time."
I said this to him as the scrimmage was being formed. He did not answer. He stood looking about him in a hazy sort of way, as though the further proceedings had no interest for him.
"What's the matter? Are you hurt?"
He turned to me.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"Where's who?"
I couldn't make him out. There was quite a curious look upon his face.
"Joyce!"
Somehow, as he said this, I felt a trifle queer. It was his face, or his tone, or something. "Didn't you see him throw me?"
I didn't know what he meant But before I could say so we had another little rough and tumble—one go up and the other go down. A hubbub arose. There was Ingall shouting.
"I protest! I don't think this sort of thing's fair play."
"What sort of thing?"
"You said you weren't playing Joyce."
"Said we weren't! We aren't."
"Why, he just took the ball out of my hands! Joyce, where are you?"
"Yes, where is he?"
Then they laughed. Mason intervened.
​"Excuse me, Lance; we've no objection to your playing Joyce, but why do you say you aren't?"
"I don't think you're well. I tell you that Frank Joyce is at this moment lying in Brixham hospital"
"He just now collared me."
I confess that when Mason said that I was a trifle staggered. I had distinctly seen that he had slipped and fallen. No one had been within a dozen yards of him at the time. Those Brixham men told him so—not too civilly.
"Do you fellows mean to say," he roared, "that Frank Joyce didn't just now pick me up and throw me?"
I struck in.
"I mean to say so. You slipped and fell. My dear fellow, no one was near you at the time."
He sprang round at me.
"Well, that beats anything!"
"At the same time," I added, "it's all nonsense to talk about Joyce being in Brixham hospital, because, since half-time at any rate, he's been playing three-quarter."
"Of course he has," cried Ingall. "Didn't I see him?"
"And didn't he collar me?" asked Giffard.
The Brixham men were silent We looked at them, and they at us.
"You fellows are dreaming," said Lance. "It strikes me that you don't know Joyce when you see him."
"That's good," I cried, "considering that he and I were five years at school together."
"Suppose you point him out then?"
​"Joyce!" I shouted. "You aren't ashamed to show your face, I hope?"
"Joyce!" they replied, in mockery. "You aren't bashful, Joyce?"
He was not there. Or we couldn't find him, at any rate. We scrutinised each member of the team; it was really absurd to suppose that I could mistake any of them for Joyce. There was not the slightest likeness.
Dryall appealed to the referee.
"Are you sure nobody's sneaked off the field?"
"Stuff!" he said. "I've been following the game all the time, and know every man who's playing, and Joyce hasn't been upon the ground."
"As for his playing three-quarter, Pendleton, Marshall, and I have been playing three-quarter all the afternoon, and I don't think that either of us is very much like Joyce."
This was Tom Wilson.
"You've been playing four three-quarters since we crossed over."
"Bosh! "said Wilson.
That was good, as though I hadn't seen the four with my own eyes.
"Play!" sang out the referee. "Don't waste any more time."
We were at it again. We might be mystified. There was something about the whole affair which was certainly mysterious to me. But we did not intend to be beaten.
"They're only playing three three-quarters now," said Giffard.
So they were. That was plain enough. I wondered ​if the fourth man had joined the forwards. But why should they conceal the fact that they had been playing four?
One of their men tried a drop. Mason caught it, ran, was collared, passed—wide to the left—and I was off. The whole crowd was in the centre of the field. I put on the steam. Lance came at me. I dodged, he missed. Pendleton was bearing down upon me from the right I outpaced him. I got a lead. Only Rivers, their back, was between the Brixham goal and me. He slipped just as he made his effort I was past. It was only a dozen yards to the goal. Nothing would stop me now. I was telling myself that the only thing left was the shouting, when, right in front of me, stood—Joyce! Where he came from I have not the least idea. Out of nothing, it seemed to me. He stood there, cool as a cucumber, waiting—as it appeared—until I came within his reach. His sudden appearance baulked me. I stumbled. The ball slipped from beneath my arm. I saw him smile. Forgetting all about the ball, I made a dash at him. The instant I did so he was gone!
I felt a trifle mixed. I heard behind me the roar of voices. I knew that I had lost my chance. But, at the moment, that was not the trouble. Where had Joyce come from? Where had he gone?
"Now then, Steyning! All together, and you'll do it!"
I heard Mason's voice ring out above the hubbub.
"Brixham, Brixham!" shouted Lance. "Play up!"
"Joyce or no Joyce," I told myself, "hang me if I won't do it yet!"
​I got on side. Blaine had hold of the leather. They were on him like a cartload of bricks. He passed to Giffard.
"Don't run back!" I screamed.
They drove him back. He passed to me. They were on the ball as soon as I was. They sent me spinning. Somebody got hold of it. Just as he was off I made a grab at his leg. He went down on his face. The ball broke loose. I got on to my feet. They were indulging in what looked to me very much like hacking. We sent the leather through, and Lance was off! Their fellows backed him up in style. They kept us off until he had a start. He bore off to the right. Already he had shaken off our forwards. I saw Mason charge him. I saw that he sent Mason flying. I made for him. I caught him round the waist. He passed to Pendleton. Pendleton was downed. He lost the ball. Back it came to me, and I was off!
I was away before most of them knew what had become of the leather. Again there was only Rivers between the goal and me. He soon was out of the reckoning. The mud beat him. As he was making for me down he came upon his hands and knees. I had been running wide till then. When he came to grief I centred. Should I take the leather in, or drop?
"Drop!" shouted a voice behind.
That settled me. I was within easy range of the goal. I ought to manage the kick. I dropped—at least, I tried to. It was only a try, because, just as I had my toe against the ball, and was in the very act of kicking, Joyce stood right in front of me! ​He stood so close that, so to speak, he stood right on the ball. It fell dead, it didn't travel an inch. As I made my fruitless effort, and was still poised upon one leg, placing his hand against my chest, he pushed me over backwards. As I fell I saw him smile—just as I had seen him smile when he had baulked me just before.
I didn't feel like smiling. I felt still less like smiling when, as I yet lay sprawling, Rivers, pouncing on the ball, dropped it back into the centre of the field. He was still standing by me when I regained my feet He volunteered an observation.
"Lucky for us you muffed that kick."
"Where's Joyce?" I asked
"Where's who?"
"Joyce."
He stared at me.
"I don't know what you're driving at. I think you fellows must have got Joyce on the brain."
He returned to his place in the field. I returned to mine. I had an affectionate greeting from Giffard.
"That's the second chance you've thrown away. Whatever made you muff that kick?"
"Giffard," I asked, "do you think I'm going mad?"
"I should think you've gone."
I could not—it seems ridiculous, but I could not ask if he had seen Joyce. It was so evident that he had not. And yet, if I had seen him, he must have seen him too. As he suggested—I must have gone mad!
The play was getting pretty rough, the ground was getting pretty heavy. We had churned it into a regular quagmire. Sometimes we went above the ​ankle in liquid mud. As for the state that we were in!
One of theirs had the ball. Half a dozen of ours had hold of him.
"Held! held!" they yelled.
"It's not held," he gasped.
They had him down, and sat on him. Then he owned that it was held.
"Let it through," cried Mason, when the leather was in scrimmage.
Before our forwards had a chance they rushed it through. We picked it up; we carried it back. They rushed it through again. The tide of battle swayed, now to this side, now to that. Still we gained. Two or three short runs bore the ball within punting distance of their goal. We more than retained the advantage. Yard by yard we drove them back. It was a match against time. We looked like winning if there was only time enough. At last it seemed as though matters had approached something very like a settlement Pendleton had the ball. Our men were on to him. To avoid being held he punted. But he was charged before he really had a chance. The punt was muddled. It was a catch for Mason. He made his mark—within twenty yards of their goal! There is no better drop-kick in England than Alec Mason. If from a free kick at that distance he couldn't top their bar, we might as well go home to bed.
Mason took his time. He judged the distance with his eye. Then, paying no attention to the Brixham forward, who had stood up to his mark, he dropped a good six feet on his own side of it ​There was an instant's silence. Then they raised a yell; for as the ball left Mason's foot one of their men sprang at him, and, leaping upwards, caught the ball in the air. It was wonderfully done! Quick as lightning, before we had recovered from our surprise, he had dropped the ball back into the centre of the field.
"Now then, Brixham," bellowed Lance.
And they came rushing on. They came on too! We were so disconcerted by Mason's total failure that they got the drop on us. They reached the leather before our back had time to return. It was all we could do to get upon the scene of action quickly enough to prevent their having the scrimmage all to themselves. Mason's collapse had put life into them as much as, for the moment, it had taken it out of us. They carried the ball through the scrimmage as though our forwards were not there.
"Now then, Steyning, you're not going to let them beat us!"
As Mason held his peace I took his place as fugleman.
But we could not stand against them—we could not—in scrimmage or out of it. All at once they seemed to be possessed. In an instant their back play improved a hundred per cent. One of their men, in particular, played like Old Nick himself. In the excitement—and they were an exciting sixty seconds—I could not make out which one of them it was; but he made things lively. He as good as played us single-handed; he was always on the ball; he seemed to lend their forwards irresistible impetus when it was in the scrimmage. And when it was ​out of it, wasn't he just upon the spot. He was ubiquitous—here, there, and everywhere. And at last he was off. Exactly how it happened is more than I can say, but I saw that he had the ball. I saw him dash away with it. I made for him. He brushed me aside as though I were a fly. I was about to start in hot pursuit when someone caught me by the arm. I turned—in a trifle of a rage. There was Mason at my side.
"Never mind that fellow. Listen to me." These were funny words to come from the captain of one's team at the very crisis of the game. I both listened and looked. Something in the expression of his face quite startled me. "Do you know who it was who spoilt my kick? It was either Joyce or—Joyce's ghost."
Before I was able to ask him what it was he meant there arose a hullaballoo of shouting. I turned, just in time to see the fellow, who had run away with the leather, drop it, as sweetly as you please, just over our goal. They had won! And at that moment the whistle sounded—they had done it just on time!
The man who had done the trick turned round and faced us. He was wearing a worsted cap, such as brewers wear. Taking it off, he waved it over his head. As he did so there was not a man upon the field who did not see him clearly, who did not know who he was. He was Frank Joyce! He stood there for a moment before us all, and then was gone.
"Lance," shouted the referee, "here's a telegram for you."
Lance was standing close to Mason and to me. A telegraph boy came pelting up. Lance took the ​yellow envelope which the boy held out to him. He opened it
"Why! what!" Through the mud upon his face he went white, up to the roots of his hair. He turned to us with startled eyes. "Joyce died in Brixham Hospital nearly an hour ago. The hospital people have telegraphed to say so."