Whether it's
passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him;
and then, he's got the head and can hold us all together.
What am I to do? That's what I ask you, Mr. Holmes.
There's Moorhouse, first reserve, but he is trained as a half,
and he always edges right in on to the scrum instead of keeping
out on the touch-line. He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but,
then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts.
Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him.
Stevenson is fast enough, but he couldn't drop from the twenty-five
line, and a three-quarter who can't either punt or drop isn't worth
a place for pace alone. No, Mr. Holmes, we are done unless you can
help me to find Godfrey Staunton."
My friend had listened with amused surprise to this long speech,
which was poured forth with extraordinary vigour and earnestness,
every point being driven home by the slapping of a brawny hand
upon the speaker's knee. When our visitor was silent Holmes
stretched out his hand and took down letter "S" of his
commonplace book. For once he dug in vain into that mine of
varied information.
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