II

He did. At the beginning of the game the ropes were lined by some

thirty spectators, who had come to derive a languid enjoyment from

seeing the First pile up a record score. By half-time their numbers had

risen to an excited mob of something over three hundred, and the second

half of the game was fought out to the accompaniment of a storm of

yells and counter yells such as usually only belonged to

school-matches. The Second Fifteen, after a poor start, suddenly awoke

to the fact that this was not going to be the conventional massacre by

any means. The First had scored an unconverted try five minutes after

the kick-off, and it was after this that the Second began to get

together. The school back bungled the drop out badly, and had to find

touch in his own twenty-five, and after that it was anyone's game. The

scrums were a treat to behold. Payne was a monument of strength. Time

after time the Second had the ball out to their three-quarters, and

just after half-time Bowden slipped through in the corner. The kick

failed, and the two teams, with their scores equal now, settled down

grimly to fight the thing out to a finish. But though they remained on

their opponents' line for most of the rest of the game, the Second did

not add to their score, and the match ended in a draw of three points

all.

The first intimation Grey received of this came to him late in the

evening. He had been reading a novel which, whatever its other merits

may have been, was not interesting, and it had sent him to sleep. He

awoke to hear a well-known voice observe with some unction: 'Ah! M'yes.

Leeches and hot fomentations.' This effectually banished sleep. If

there were two things in the world that he loathed, they were leeches

and hot fomentations, and the School doctor apparently regarded them as

a panacea for every kind of bodily ailment, from a fractured skull to a

cold in the head. It was this gentleman who had just spoken, but Grey's

alarm vanished as he perceived that the words had no personal

application to himself. The object of the remark was a fellow-sufferer

in the next bed but one. Now Grey was certain that when he had fallen

asleep there had been nobody in that bed. When, therefore, the medical

expert had departed on his fell errand, the quest of leeches and hot

fomentations, he sat up and gave tongue.

'Who's that in that bed?' he asked.

'Hullo, Grey,' replied a voice. 'Didn't know you were awake. I've come

to keep you company.'

'That you, Barrett? What's up with you?'

'Collar-bone. Dislocated it or something. Reade's over in that corner.

He has bust his ankle. Oh, yes, we've been having a nice, cheery

afternoon,' concluded Barrett bitterly.

'Great Scott! How did it happen?'

'Payne.'

'Where? In your collar-bone?'

'Yes. That wasn't what I meant, though. What I was explaining was that

Payne got hold of me in the middle of the field, and threw me into

touch. After which he fell on me. That was enough for my simple needs.

I'm not grasping.'

'How about Reade?'

'The entire Second scrum collapsed on top of Reade. When we dug him out

his ankle was crocked. Mainspring gone, probably. Then they gathered up

the pieces and took them gently away. I don't know how it all ended.'

Just then Walkinshaw burst into the room. He had a large bruise over

one eye, his arm was in a sling, and he limped. But he was in excellent

spirits.

'I knew I was right, by Jove,' he observed to Grey. 'I knew he could

buck up if he liked.'

'I know it now,' said Barrett.

'Who's this you're talking about?' said Grey.

'Payne. I've never seen anything like the game he played today. He was

everywhere. And, by Jove, his _tackling_!'

'Don't,' said Barrett, wearily.

'It's the best match I ever played in,' said Walkinshaw, bubbling over

with enthusiasm. 'Do you know, the Second had all the best of the

game.'

'What was the score?'

'Draw. One try all.'

'And now I suppose you're satisfied?' enquired Barrett. The great

scheme for the regeneration of Payne had been confided to him by its

proud patentee.

'Almost,' said Walkinshaw. 'We'll continue the treatment for one more

game, and then we'll have him simply fizzing for the Windybury match.

That's next Saturday. By the way, I'm afraid you'll hardly be fit again

in time for that, Barrett, will you?'

'I may possibly,' said Barrett, coldly, 'be getting about again in time

for the Windybury match of the year after next. This year I'm afraid I

shall not have the pleasure. And I should strongly advise you, if you

don't want to have to put a team of cripples into the field, to

discontinue the treatment, as you call it.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Walkinshaw.

On the following Wednesday evening, at five o'clock, something was

carried in on a stretcher, and deposited in the bed which lay between

Grey and Barrett. Close scrutiny revealed the fact that it was what had

once been Charles Augustus Walkinshaw. He was slightly broken up.

'Payne?' enquired Grey in chilly tones.

Walkinshaw admitted the impeachment.

Grey took a pencil and a piece of paper from the table at his side. 'If

you want to know what I'm doing,' he said, 'I'm writing out the team

for the Windybury match, and I'm going to make Payne captain, as the

senior Second Fifteen man. And if we win I'm jolly well going to give

him his cap after the match. If we don't win, it'll be the fault of a

raving lunatic of the name of Walkinshaw, with his beastly Colney Hatch

schemes for reforming slack forwards. You utter rotter!'

Fortunately for the future peace of mind of C. A. Walkinshaw, the

latter contingency did not occur. The School, in spite of its

absentees, contrived to pull the match off by a try to _nil_.

Payne, as was only right and proper, scored the try, making his way

through the ranks of the visiting team with the quiet persistence of a

steam-roller. After the game he came to tea, by request, at the

infirmary, and was straightaway invested by Grey with his First Fifteen

colours. On his arrival he surveyed the invalids with interest.

'Rough game, footer,' he observed at length.

'Don't mention it,' said Barrett politely. 'Leeches,' he added

dreamily. 'Leeches and hot fomentations. _Boiling_ fomentations.

Will somebody kindly murder Walkinshaw!'

'Why?' asked Payne, innocently.

[10]