The two days' grace which Mr Frampton had almost reluctantly allowed
before putting into execution his new rule of compulsory athletics told
very much in his favour.
Bolsover, after the first shock, grew used to the idea and even
resigned. After all, it would be a variety, and things were precious
dull as they were. As to making a rule of it, that was absurd, and
Frampton could hardly be serious when he talked of doing so. But on
Saturday, if it was fine, and they felt in the humour--well, they would
see about it.
With which condescending resolution they returned to their loafings and
novels and secret cigarettes, and tried to forget all about Mr
Frampton.
But Mr Frampton had no idea of being forgotten. He had the
schoolmaster's virtue of enthusiasm, but he lacked the schoolmaster's
virtue of patience. He hated the dry-rot like poison, and could not
rest till he had ripped up every board and rafter that harboured it.
Any ordinary reformer would have been satisfied with the week's work he
had already accomplished. But Mr Frampton added yet another blow at
the very heart of the dry-rot before the week was out.
On the day before the football match Bolsover was staggered, and, so to
speak, struck all of a heap by the announcement that in future the
school tuck-shop would be closed until after the dinner hour!
Fellows stared at one another with a sickly, incredulous smile when they
first heard the grim announcement and wondered whether, after all, the
new head-master _was_ an escaped lunatic. A few gifted with more
presence of mind than others bethought them of visiting the shop and of
dispelling the hideous nightmare by optical demonstration.
Alas! the shutters were up. Mother Partridge was not at the receipt of
custom, but instead, written in the bold, square hand of Mr Frampton
himself, there confronted them the truculent notice, "The shop will for
the future be open only before breakfast and after dinner."
"Brutal!" gasped Farfield, as he read it. "Does he mean to starve us as
well as drown us?"
"Hard lines for poor old Mother Partridge," suggested Scarfe.
This cry took. There was somehow a lurking sense of shame which made it
difficult for Bolsover to rise in arms on account of the injury done to
itself. Money had been wasted, appetites had been lost, digestions had
been ruined in that shop, and they knew it.
If you had put the question to any one of the boys who crowded down,
hungry after their bath, to breakfast on the day of the football match,
he would have told you that Frampton was as great a brute as ever, and
that it was a big shame to make fellows play whether they liked it or
not. For all that, he would tell you, _he_ was going to play, much as
he hated it, to avoid a row. And if you had pressed him further he
would have confided to you that it was expected the School would beat
the Sixth, and that he rather hoped, as he must play, he would get a
chance at the ball before the match was over. From all which you might
gather that Bolsover was reluctantly coming round to take an interest in
the event.
"Fortune favours the brave," said Mr Steele, one of his assistants, to
the head-master at dinner-time. "You have conquered before you have
struck, mighty Caesar."
Mr Frampton smiled. He was flushed and excited. Two days ago he had
seemed to be committed to a desperate venture. Now, a straight path
seemed to open before him, and Bolsover, in his enthusiastic
imagination, was already a reformed, reinvigorated institution.
"Yes, Steele," said he, as he glanced from the window and watched the
boys trooping down towards the meadow. "This day will be remembered at
Bolsover."
Little dreamed the brave head-master how truly his prophecy would be
fulfilled.
An arrangement had been made to give the small boys a match of their
own. The young gladiators themselves, who had secretly wept over their
impending doom, were delighted to be removed beyond the reach of the
giants of the Sixth. And the leaders of the School forces were devoutly
thankful to be disencumbered of a crowd of meddlesome "kids" who would
have spoiled sport, even if they did not litter the ground with their
corpses.
The sight of the new goal posts and ball, which Mr Freshfield, a junior
master, was heard to explain was a present from the head-master to the
school, had also a mollifying effect. And the bracing freshness of the
air and the self-respect engendered by the sensation of their flannels
(for most of the players had contrived to provide themselves with armour
of this healthy material) completed their reconciliation to their lot,
and drove all feelings of resentment against their tyrant, for the
present at any rate, quite out of their heads.
In a hurried consultation of the seniors, Farfield, who was known to be
a player, was nominated captain of the senior force; while a similar
council of war among the juniors had resulted in the appointment of
Ranger of the Fifth to lead the hosts of the School.
Mr Freshfield, with all the ardour of an old general, assisted
impartially in advising as to the disposition of the field on either
side; and, for the benefit of such as might be inexperienced at the
game, rehearsed briefly some of the chief rules of the game as played
under the Rugby laws.
"Now, are you ready?" said he, when all preliminaries were settled, and
the ball lay, carefully titled, ready for Farfield's kick-off.
"Wait a bit," cried some one. "Where's Jeffreys?"
Where, indeed? No one had noticed his absence till now; and one or two
boys darted off to look for him.
But before they had gone far a white apparition appeared floundering
across the meadow in the direction of the goals; and a shout of derisive
welcome rose, as Jeffreys, arrayed in an ill-fitting suit of white
holland, and crowned with his blue flannel cap, came on to the scene.
"He's been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers," said
some one.
"Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in," cried
another.
"Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we'd got," said a third,
"not our Sunday best."
Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on
his strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy.
"Come on," said Scarfe, as he drew near, "it wasn't fair to the other
side for you not to play."
"I couldn't find my boots," replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him.
"Perhaps you'll play forward," said Farfield, "and if ever you don't
know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy's
sake let the ball alone."
"Boo-hoo! I _am_ in such a funk," cried Forrester with his mocking
laugh. "Thank goodness I'm playing back."
"Come now," called Mr Freshfield impatiently, "are you ready? Kick
off, Farfield. Look out, School."
Next moment the match had begun.
As might have been expected, there was at first a great deal more
confusion than play. Bolsover was utterly unused to doing anything
together, and football of all games needs united action.
There was a great deal of scrimmaging, but very few kicks and very few
runs. The ball was half the time invisible, and the other half in
touch. Mr Freshfield had time after time to order a throw-in to be
repeated, or rule a kick as "off-side." The more ardent players forgot
the duty of protecting their flanks and rear; and the more timid
neglected their chances of "piling up" the scrimmages. The Sixth got in
the way of the Sixth, and the School often spoiled the play of the
School.
But after a quarter of an hour or so the chaos began to resolve itself,
and each side, so to speak, came down to its bearings. Mr Frampton, as
he walked across from the small boys' match, was surprised as well as
delighted to notice the business-like way in which the best players on
either side were settling down to their work. There was Farfield,
flushed and dogged, leading on his forwards, and always on the ball.
There was Scarfe, light and dodgy, ready for a run or a neat drop-kick
from half-back. There was Ranger and Phipps of the Fifth, backing one
another up like another Nisus and Euryalus. There was young Forrester,
merry and plucky, saving his goal more than once by a prompt touch-down.
There, even, was the elephantine Jeffreys, snorting and pounding in the
thick of the fray, feeling his feet under him, and doing his clumsy best
to fight the battle of his side.
The game went hard against the School, despite their determined rallies
and gallant sorties. Young Forrester in goal had more than one man's
share of work; and Scarfe's drops from the rear of the Sixth scrimmage
flew near and still nearer the enemy's goal.
Once, just before half-time, he had what seemed a safe chance, but at
the critical moment Jeffreys' ungainly bulk interposed, and received on
his chest the ball which would certainly have carried victory to his
side.
"Clumsy lout!" roared Farfield; "didn't I tell you to stand out of the
way and not go near the ball--you idiot! Go and play back, do."
Jeffreys turned on him darkly.
"You think I did it on purpose," said he. "I didn't."
"Go and play back!" repeated Farfield--"or go and hang yourself."
Jeffreys took a long breath, and departed with a scowl to the rear.
"Half-time!" cried Mr Freshfield. "Change sides."
It was a welcome summons. Both sides needed a little breathing space to
gird themselves for the final tussle.
The School was elated at having so far eluded actual defeat, and
cheerily rallied their opponents as they crossed over. Jeffreys, in
particular, as he made moodily to his new station, came in for their
jocular greetings.
"Thanks awfully, Cad, old man!" cried one; "we knew you'd give us a leg
up."
"My word! doesn't he look pleased with himself!" said another. "No
wonder!"
"Is that the way they taught you to play football at home?" said young
Forrester, emphasising his question with an acorn neatly pitched at the
Cad's ear.
Jeffreys turned savagely with lifted arm, but Forrester was far beyond
his enemy's reach, and his hand dropped heavily at his own side as he
continued his sullen march to the Sixth's goal.
"Are you ready?" shouted Mr Freshfield. "Kick off. Ranger! Look out,
Sixth!"
The game recommenced briskly. The School, following up the advantage of
their kick-off, and cheered by their recent luck, made a desperate
onslaught into the enemy's territory, which for a while took all the
energy of the Sixth to repel.
Phipps and Ranger were irrepressible, and had it not been for the steady
play of Scarfe and the Sixth backs, that formidable pair of desperadoes
might have turned the tide of victory by their own unaided exertions.
In the defence of the seniors, Jeffreys, it need hardly be said, took no
part. He stood moodily near one of the posts, still glaring in the
direction of his insulters, and apparently heedless of the fortunes, of
the game.
His inaction, however, was not destined to last long.
The second half game had lasted about a quarter of an hour, and the
School was still stubbornly holding their advanced position in the
proximity of the enemy's goal, when the ball suddenly, and by one of
those mysterious chances of battle, burst clear of the scrimmage and
darted straight to where Jeffreys stood.
"Pick it up and run--like mad!" shouted Farfield.
With a sudden swoop which astonished his beholders the Cad pounced on
the ball and started to run in the direction of the ill-protected goal
of the School.
Till they saw him in motion with an almost clear field ahead, no one had
had any conception how powerfully he was built or how fast he could run.
The School, rash and sanguine of victory, had pressed to the front,
leaving scarcely half a dozen behind to guard their rear.
Three of these Jeffreys had passed before the School was well aware what
he was doing. Then a shout of consternation arose, mingled with the
frantic cheers of the Sixth.
"Collar him! Have him over! Stop him there! Look out in goal!"
But Jeffreys was past stopping. Like a cavalry charger who dashes on to
the guns heedless of everything, and for the time being gone mad, so the
Bolsover Cad, with the shouts behind him and the enemy's goal in front,
saw and heard nothing else. The two men who stepped out at him were
brushed aside like reeds before a boat's keel; and with half the field
before him only one enemy remained between him and victory.
That enemy was young Forrester! There was something almost terrible in
the furious career of the big boy as he bore down on the fated goal.
Those behind ceased to pursue, and watched the result in breathless
suspense.
Even the saucy light on Forrester's face faded as he hesitated a moment
between fear and duty.
"Collar him there!" shouted the School.
"He'll pass him easily," said the Sixth.
Forrester stepped desperately across his adversary's path, resolved to
do his duty, cost what it might.
Jeffreys never swerved from his course, right or left.
"He's going to charge the youngster!" gasped Farfield.
Forrester, who had counted on the runner trying to pass him, became
suddenly aware that the huge form was bearing straight down upon him.
The boy was no coward, but for a moment he stood paralysed.
That moment was fatal. There was a crash, a shout! Next moment
Jeffreys was seen staggering to his feet and carrying the ball behind
the goal. But no one heeded him. Every eye was turned to where young
Forrester lay on his back motionless, with his face as white as death.