[Illustration: ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG.]
ACTON'S FEUD
A PUBLIC SCHOOL STORY
BY
FREDERICK SWAINSON
1901
WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED
SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND
1901
AD MATREM
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FOUL 1
II. THE PENALTY 8
III. THE REGENERATION OF BIFFEN'S HOUSE 15
IV. BIFFEN'S PROGRESS 22
V. COTTON AND HIS JACKAL 27
VI. THE LAST CAP 36
VII. THANKS TO ACTON 49
VIII. BIFFEN'S CONCERT 57
IX. THE END OF TERM 65
X. THE YOUNG BROTHER 75
XI. TODD PAYS THE BILL 88
XII. RAFFLES OF ROTHERHITHE 93
XIII. "EASY IS THE DOWNWARD ROAD" 99
XIV. IN THE STABLE 106
XV. GRIM'S SUSPICIONS 112
XVI. TODD "FINDS HIMSELF" 119
XVII. RAFFLES' BILL 126
XVIII. HODGSON'S QUIETUS 133
XIX. HOW THEY "'ELPED THE PORE FELLER" 138
XX. ACTON'S TRUMP CARD 146
XXI. LONDON AND BACK 156
XXII. THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND 161
XXIII. BOURNE _v._ ACTON 170
XXIV. A RENEWED FRIENDSHIP 179
XXV. A LITTLE ROUGH JUSTICE 187
XXVI. THE MADNESS OF W.E. GRIM 194
XXVII. CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON 204
XXVIII. ACTON'S LAST MOVE 209
XXIX. WHY BIFFEN'S LOST 215
XXX. THE END OF THE FEUD 225
ACTON'S CHRISTMAS
I. SNOWED UP 237
II. OVER THE FELLS 248
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ACTON DROPPED TO THE GROUND LIKE A BLUDGEONED DOG Frontispiece
PHIL WALKED DOWN THE STEPS WITHOUT A FRIENDLY CHEER 40
ACTON JUST REACHED IT WITH HIS HEAD 50
AS THE TRAIN MOVED, GRIM SAID, "THREE CHEERS!" 74
ACTON THREW HIM INTO THE SNOW-HEAP 78
A LITTLE YELLOW, EAR-TORN DOG BUSTLED OUT OF SOME SHED 94
"I'M GOING TO HAVE THE SEVEN TEN, OR SHOW YOU UP" 128
THE GREEN POWDER UNDERWENT SOME WEIRD EXPERIMENTS 142
HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH 160
"CUT, YOU MISERABLE PUPPY" 172
HE GAVE ME A LONG, STEADY LOOK OF HATRED 204
AS THE HORSES WHIRLED PAST, HE CLUTCHED MADLY AT THE LOOSE REINS 226
CHAPTER I
THE FOUL
Shannon, the old Blue, had brought down a rattling eleven--two
Internationals among them--to give the school the first of its annual
"Socker" matches. We have a particular code of football of our own, which
the school has played time out of mind; but, ten years ago, the
Association game was introduced, despite the murmuring of some of the
masters, many of the parents--all old Amorians--and of Moore, the Head,
who had yielded to varied pressures, but in his heart thought "Socker"
vastly inferior to the old game. Association had flourished exceedingly;
so much so that the Head made it a law that, on each Thursday in the
Michaelmas term, the old game, and nothing but the old game, should be
played, and woe betide any unauthorized "cutters" thereof. This was almost
the only rule that Corker never swerved a hair's breadth from, and bitter
were the regrets when Shannon had sent word to Bourne, our captain, that
he could bring down a really clinking team to put our eleven through their
paces, if the match were played on Thursday. Saturday, on account of big
club fixtures, was almost impossible. Corker consented to the eleven
playing the upstart code for this occasion only, but for the school
generally the old game was to be _de rigueur_.
So on this Thursday pretty well the whole school was out in the Acres,
where the old game was in full swing; and, though I fancy the players to a
man would have liked to have lined up on the touch-line in the next field
and given Shannon the "whisper" he deserves, O.G. claimed them that
afternoon for its own, and they were unwilling martyrs to old Corker's
cast-iron conservatism. Consequently, when Bourne spun the coin and
Shannon decided to play with the wind, there would not be more than
seventy or eighty on the touch-line. Shannon asked me to referee, so I
found a whistle, and the game started.
It was a game in which there seemed to be two or three players who served
as motive forces, and the rest were worked through. On one side Shannon at
back, Amber the International at half, and Aspinall, the International
left-winger, were head and shoulders above the others; on our side, Bourne
and Acton dwarfed the rest.
Bourne played back, and Acton was his partner. Bourne I knew well, since
he was in the Sixth, and I liked him immensely; but of Acton I knew only a
little by repute and nothing personally. He was in the Fifth, but, except
in the ordinary way of school life, he did not come much into the circle
wherein the Sixth moves. He was brilliantly clever, with that sort of
showy brilliance which some fellows possess: in the exams, he would walk
clean through a paper, or leave it untouched--no half measures. He was in
Biffen's house and quite the most important fellow in it, and no end
popular with his own crowd, for they looked to him to give their house a
leg up, both in the schools and in the fields, for Biffen's were the
slackest house in St. Amory's. He played football with a dash and vim good
to see, and I know a good few of the eleven envied him his long, lungeing
rush, which parted man and ball so cleanly, and his quick, sure kick that
dropped the ball unerringly to his forwards. He was not in the eleven; but
that he would be in before the term was over was a "moral." He was
good-looking and rather tall, and had a certain foreign air, I thought;
his dark face seemed to be hard and proud, and I had heard that his temper
was fiery.
Bourne had chosen him to play against Shannon's team, and as Acton bottled
up the forwards on his wing Bourne felt that the school's future right
back would not be far to seek.
I soon saw that the school was not quite good enough for the others:
Shannon was almost impassable, and Amber, the half, generally waltzed
round our forwards, and when he secured he passed the ball on to Aspinall,
who doubled like a hare along the touch-line. The question then was "Could
Acton stop the flying International, who spun along like Bassett
himself?" And he did, generally; or, if he could not, he forced him to
part with the ball, and either Baines, our half, lying back, nipped in and
secured, or Bourne cleared in the nick of time. Nine times out of ten,
when Acton challenged Aspinall, the International would part with the ball
to his inside partner; but twice he feinted, and before either of the
school backs could recover, the ball was shot into the net with a high and
catapultic cross shot. Again and again the game resolved itself into a
duello between Acton and Aspinall, and Bourne, when he saw the dealings
with the International and his wiles, smiled easily. He saw the school was
stronger than he thought.
The interval came with the score standing at two against us. When I
started the game again I found that our fellows were pulling along much
better with the wind, and that some of Shannon's men were not quite so
dangerous as before, for condition told. We quickly had one through, and
when I found myself blowing the whistle for a second goal I began to think
that the school might pull through after all. Meanwhile Acton and Aspinall
were having their occasional tussles, though somewhat less often than
before, and three or four times the school back was overturned pretty
heartily in the encounters.
Though there was not a suspicion of unfairness or temper on Aspinall's
part, I fancied that Acton was getting rather nettled at his frequent
upsets. He was, I considered, heavier than Aspinall, and much taller, so I
was both rather waxy and astonished to find that he was infusing a little
too much vigour into his tackling, and, not to put too fine a point on it,
was playing a trifle roughly. Aspinall was bundled over the touch-line a
good half-dozen times, with no little animus behind the charge, and
ultimately Bourne noticed it. Now, Bourne loathed anything approaching bad
form, so he said sharply to Acton, though quietly, "Play the game, sir!
Play the ball!" Acton flushed angrily, and I did not like the savage way
he faced round to Bourne, who was particularly busy at that moment and did
not notice it. The game went on until within about five minutes from time.
Amber had been feeding Aspinall assiduously for the last ten minutes, and
Acton had, despite his cleverness, more than he could really hold in the
flying International. He stalled off the attack somehow, and Bourne always
covered his exertions, so that it seemed as if there would be a draw after
all. At last the ball was swung across, and Aspinall was off on a final
venture. Acton stuck to him like a leech, but the winger tipped the ball
to his partner, and as Acton moved to intercept the inside, the latter
quickly and wisely poked the ball back again to Aspinall. He was off again
in his own inimitable style, and I saw him smile as he re-started his run.
I rather fancy Acton saw it too, and accepted the smile as a sneering
challenge; anyhow, he set his lips and I believe made up his mind that in
any case Aspinall should not get the winning goal. How it exactly happened
I cannot say, but as Aspinall was steadying himself, when at top speed,
for an almost point-blank delivery, I saw Acton break his own stride,
shoot out his leg, and the next moment the International was stumbling
forward, whilst the ball rolled harmlessly onward into our goal-keeper's
hands. I could hardly believe my own eyes, but it was a deliberate trip,
if ever there was one! Aspinall tried to recover himself, failed, and came
with a sickening crash against the goal-post. I blew the whistle and
rushed to Aspinall; his cheek was bleeding villainously and he was deadly
pale. I helped him up, and he said with his usual smile--who could mistake
it for a sneer?--"Thanks, old man. Yes, I do feel a bit seedy. That back
of yours is an animal, though." He tried hard to keep his senses; I saw
him battling against his faintness, but the pain and shock were too much
for him; he fell down again in a dead faint.
We improvised a hurdle and carried him up to the school. Acton, pale to
the lips, prepared to bear a hand, but Bourne unceremoniously took him by
the arm and said with concentration, "No thanks, Acton. We'll excuse
you--you beastly cad!" I heard Bourne's remark, though no one else saw or
heard. Acton's hand closed involuntarily, and he gave Bourne a vitriolic
look, but did nothing nor said anything. We took Aspinall up to
Merishall's--his old house--where he was staying, and left him there still
unconscious.
What astonished me was that no one save Bourne had noticed the trip, but
when I came to think it over the explanation was easy. Acton had, whether
from accident or of purpose, "covered" his man and blocked the view from
behind. I myself had not really _seen_ the trip, but it would have
been plainly visible for any one opposite on the touch-line, and luckily
there was no one opposite. The goal-keeper might have seen it, but Roberts
never attends to anything but the ball--the reason he's the fine keeper
that he is. Bourne had actually seen it, being practically with Acton, and
I knew by his pale face and scornful eyes that he would dearly have liked
to kick Acton on the spot.
I was, as you may guess, intensely pleased that no one had an idea of the
foul except Bourne and myself, for I could imagine vividly where the
rumour of this sort of "form" would spread to. We'd hear of it for years
after.
I mentally promised that Acton should have a little of my opinion on the
matter on the first opportunity.