THE GREAT GAME
Rouse was walking slowly from the school towards the playing fields. He
was clad in a blazer surmounted by a wide school muffler, wound several
times round his neck, and upon his head he wore a velvet cap heavily
embroidered with brocade. Rouse was at peace with all the world. The
wonderful thing had happened at last: he was captain of Rugby football
at Harley. That it would come had been a foregone conclusion amongst
those who knew. Rouse himself had been a little doubtful. For one thing
he was not yet in the Sixth, and though he had certainly been made a
prefect in spite of this fact the previous term, he knew that he was
commonly regarded as a boy who could see nothing but the silly side of
things. He had been sorry about this because, in spite of his
extravagant sense of humour and his consistent lightheartedness, he
could be serious enough over things that really mattered, and to him
Rugger was one of the things that really did. Only his closest friends
were permitted to understand this side of his character, for he was
sensitive about it, but he found that just as it pays one man to seem a
fool so it sometimes paid him to maintain a reputation for
irresponsibility. Toby and Terence knew him best, and the Grey Man had
grown to understand him; extraordinarily well too. These had known that
if he were elected captain of football he would make good. Moreover the
school had wanted him to be elected. He was easily the most popular
player in the whole of Harley, and besides, he was the most senior of
the old colours, which was always the main consideration in electing the
new captain.
Well, they had elected him. It had been quite an uproarious meeting,
too; there had been no end of enthusiasm. One small clique had certainly
put up another man whom they claimed was of equal seniority in the
Fifteen, but on hearing his name proposed the gentleman in question had
instantly and somewhat confusedly refused to stand, loudly disclaiming
any desire to skipper a team which could claim the leadership of a man
like Rouse; and amidst loud and approving cheers he had seized the hand
of Rouse and wrung it with the utmost enthusiasm; after which his
friends had been at some pains to explain to their neighbours that they
had only mentioned his name to let him know that he had not been
entirely forgotten.
So Rouse had really achieved his great ambition.... It was hard not to
chuckle. He progressed steadily towards the practice Rugger ground,
singing gently to himself and picturing the season they were going to
have. Secretly he longed to organise some great rag which should
celebrate this event, for hitherto his life had been largely made up of
rags. He realised now, however, that he would have to steady down. He
had to train a team and lead them on the field, and he had to help Toby
Nicholson teach small boys Rugger. That would take all his time, and for
such employment it was worth while foregoing rags.
Presently he came within sight of the football ground that was his
destination. Already a crowd was spreading along the touch-lines. He
fingered the switch in his hand with affection. This switch had seen
very good service, for it had been handed on from captain to captain
from time immemorial. You may have thought that Rouse was about to play
Rugby football. He was not. He was about to teach it. On the first day
of each winter term at Harley (and also on other days throughout the
season) two teams are selected to compete in a practice game, and they
consist of small boys and idle boys and new boys. The excuse that some
of these may not know Rugby football is of no account. They attend for
instruction, and the remainder of the school line up with their
waistcoats comfortably loosened in order that they may laugh the more
heartily. The games master referees and the captain of football is armed
with this switch, a cut from which is awarded, on the occasion of each
scrum, to the last man into it, whilst whenever a three-quarter becomes
possessed of the ball he is pursued up the field by this selfsame man,
running rapidly and urging him with word and gesture and such occasional
flicks of his switch as cause each boy, before the game is done, to feel
himself possessed of a demon of speed and agility. There is also a cut
for any boy who, in making a tackle, fails to go for his man at the
knees. It may be noted that old Harleyans attribute the great success of
the school at Rugby football very largely to the excellent effect
produced by the captain’s switch in junior games; and one famous
international has laid it down that in any big match in which he has
broken through with the ball upon his chest he has invariably reached by
instinct for that extra yard of speed which comes from the fear of a
young man racing behind him with a switch, and has thanked his Alma
Mater that he was taught to do so. Nor will you ever see an old Harleyan
last into a scrum or tackling high. It is a good sign.
The crowd made way for Rouse admiringly, and a characteristic smile,
which in a young boy would have looked more roguish than anything else,
began to appear at the corners of his mouth. In a game like this Rouse
was in his element. He looked thoughtfully round the players and finally
glanced up and down the touch-lines as if in search of any who had
evaded his clutch. There came a ripple of amusement. Some of those
present recalled that on the occasion of the corresponding match last
year those who laughed the most uproariously from the touch-line had
been marked down by Toby Nicholson’s eagle eye during the game, and at
half time had been called upon to perform themselves. It was possible
that this would occur again, and throughout the world those who have
once succumbed to any catch are the keenest layers of the trap for the
next man.
At last the whistle blew. Next moment Rouse had skipped nimbly into the
midst of things, encouraging all with loud cries, and the idea of the
switch in Rouse’s exuberant hands caused a great and lasting enthusiasm
amongst the players that was exceedingly stirring. Forwards fought for a
place in the front row of the scrum, and many a youth who thought
himself likely to be considered late might be heard loudly declaiming
the fact that he had already packed down once, but finding himself the
fourth man in the front row had been compelled to retire.
At last one line of three-quarters was fairly away with the ball, and
Rouse went racing across from one to the other, whirling his arm to
ensure that each man took his pass at top speed. Ultimately the wing
received the ball, and being entirely new to the game clearly did not
know what to do with it. For a moment he paused and looked round in
sheer bewilderment. It was fatal. There came a rush of air, and Rouse
was up alongside, driving him forward and shouting aloud definite
instructions. A tall thin boy came towards them and made his tackle; in
a mad moment he went high. Too late he realised his mistake. Out of the
corner of his eyes he was conscious of the switch, and his hands slid
down to the runner’s knees and tightened their grip till both came to
the ground and rolled over and over, whilst the ball flew forwards and
was gathered by an excited youth in abnormally long knickerbockers of
homemade design. Then, high above the laughter of the crowd, there
sounded a great bellow, something akin to the cry of a thoroughly mad
hyæna. At first it was difficult to locate. Rouse paused and his eyes
passed swiftly down either touch-line. The laughter stopped, and he
stepped out and cut lightly at a boy who had just received the ball in
his hands and had not got away so smartly as he should. The game
proceeded. Now and again that loud, extravagant laugh sounded across the
field and caused others to turn in search of it. As a noise it was
altogether novel. Evidently some poor boy was absolutely unable to
control his merriment, and unaware of the fate that would follow him he
gave it full rein. At last there could be no doubt who was doing it; the
laugh became a magnet. Every head was turned towards it. Half time came,
and Rouse spun on his heel and located it definitely. He walked across.
On the touch-line he stretched out his hand and pointed out the
unfortunate creature. It was the boy of such surprising fatness, the
stupid-looking boy, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Toby Nicholson had
moved up alongside Rouse.
“Look here,” said he, “why is it _you_ are not playing?”
The fat boy shook his head.
“I don’t play _that_ game.”
Rouse thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded his head.
“Ah,” said he, “many a man is walking down the Strand to-day with the
linings of his pockets hanging out, many a lordly mansion has been
crumbled into dust, many a stately avenue of elms laid low, many a boy
will be knocking at the door of Dr Barnardo’s Home to-night ... all
because somebody hasn’t learned the lesson of Rugby football. Do you
know that?”
“Why, no,” said the fat boy quakingly.
Toby had produced a small book.
“Your name?”
“Coppin, sir.”
“Go quickly to the changing-rooms and attire yourself for the fray. You
will be just in time for the second half.”
“But I ... I ... I can’t play _this_ game.”
“You will soon learn,” said Toby consolingly. “Time was I didn’t know
how to play it.” He turned. “You see that boy over there in the long
knickerbockers? That boy’s name is Henry Hope. That boy will _never_
learn how to play Rugby football. He has every disadvantage. For one
thing he is short-sighted. He cannot distinguish one jersey from
another. He tackles his own side. It doesn’t matter. He plays the game
just the same and he says that it does him good. You’ll find the same.”
He turned to Rouse. “You’d better take this young sportsman to the
changing-rooms and fit him out with togs.”
Rouse moved alertly to the fat boy’s side and piloted him out of the
crowd and rapidly across the field towards the changing-rooms; and as he
went he bubbled to himself delightedly. He turned at last and regarded
the unhappy Arthur.
Arthur’s trousers were short and very tight. The sleeves of his coat
reached midway between the elbow and the wrist, the buttons of his
waistcoat were straining in the leash, and his neck bulged over the top
of his collar. The pace was too much for him. He began to pant.
“You’ll feel better with your clothes off,” said Rouse encouragingly.
“Hold your breath for just a few minutes longer; you’ll be able to let
off steam properly as soon as you’re unfastened ... and you _will_ look
bonny in shorts.”
He chuckled.
“What is going to happen?” demanded Arthur. “What are they going to make
me do?”
“_Run_,” said Rouse hoarsely.
“Shall I be thrown to the ground like those other boys?”
“You will be thrown to the dogs,” was the immediate answer.
“Oh, but it’s such a _rough_ game. I shall be hurt.”
“What? _You?_ Never!” Rouse assured him. “Everybody who falls on you
will think you’re an air cushion.”
Further bursts of laughter reached them from across the open, and they
turned. To the fat boy’s satisfaction other stragglers were being led in
his own track. There was a tall thin boy, and a square boy with hair
like hay, and an ordinary-looking boy and an extraordinary-looking boy.
They had all been sorted out. He supposed they had all been laughing.
Arthur turned back. His world was very drear. He was filled with acute
foreboding. They had reached the changing-room. He was led in. Here, so
far as those who were waiting on the touch-line were concerned, the
curtain fell. At last it was lifted again. The sight was astounding.
Arthur was being led back. Behind him came the other boys who had
laughed so heartily, but they were unimportant. Arthur held the eye. His
extraordinary fatness was now entirely disclosed. Wherever it was
possible to bulge Arthur bulged. And his eyes were bulging most of all.
Rouse held him by the arm. Evidently he had had some difficulty in
fitting Arthur out, but he was apparently well pleased with the result.
Toby met them and spent a few moments in outlining the theory of the
game for Arthur’s benefit. Arthur nodded his head dolefully. It was
clear that he had not another laugh left in his system. Also he looked
cold.
He was led on to the field. The other new-comers were sorted out and
instructed to replace some of those who had had enough of it. Then the
whistle blew. There came a thump of a boot meeting leather and the ball
was sailing towards Arthur. For just one second Arthur regarded it
stiffly, transfixed with horror, then he turned and ran rapidly in the
other direction. There was a howl of derision. Arthur turned. There was
no way of escape. The ball was bouncing after him. It was like a
nightmare. From all sides of the field boys were rushing towards it. He
gave one choking cry, threw up his hands and fell heavily on his face.
Next moment a swarm of forwards had crowded round him and were packing
down over his prostrate body. Somebody seized him by the leg and pulled
him out of the way. He rose and looked round him with wild eyes. His
hair was ruffled. There was mud upon his nose.
Rouse came up and explained to him what he ought to have done. He looked
at Rouse dazedly. Rouse inserted him bodily into the scrum, head down,
and told him to push.
He fell on his face. Rouse picked him up, and he tottered and fell on
his back. The game went on and left him there. Rouse shouted to him, and
he rose and stood for a moment with boggling eyes and nodding head,
thinking. Toby pointed into the distance and spoke cheering words.
“Chase after it, man! Scoot! Catch ’em up!”
He began to trot foolishly up the field, with Rouse behind him. And then
suddenly the ball came sailing towards him again and dropped directly on
to his chest. He clutched at it as if for support and Rouse let loose a
loud shout of delight.
“NOW! You’re off. Nothing can stop you!” He whipped him gently into a
gallop.
As if suddenly imbued with the spirit of the game Arthur began to show
determination. A boy flew at him. Arthur handed him off with violence.
“_Let_ me alone!” he cried, suddenly very wrath.
Another essayed to tackle him. Arthur struggled clear of his grasp but
overbalanced and let go the ball.
Immediately another boy had sprung forward and gathered it.
Arthur shot after him. He suddenly understood. Everybody was against
him. He had to get the ball and everybody was trying to steal it away.
The sole idea of the game was that he should be allowed to run about the
field holding the ball, and they were all cheating. They wouldn’t let
him do it. He caught the thief by his jersey and tugged him back.
His fierce cries sounded across the field.
“Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to _me_!”
He had nearly got it. Somebody pulled him back, and he struggled in his
grasp.
“Let me to the ball,” he besought, sobbing with bitterness. “Oh, _let_
me to the ball.”
So they stood back and let him to the ball. Rouse had signed to them.
He had it at last.
He smiled gleefully. He begun to trot up the field like a pup with a
slipper. He looked from side to side as if for applause, began to raise
his knees higher and higher from the ground. Rouse ran joyously beside
him, pointing out the distant goal-line as if it were a promised land
and instructing him what to do.
He was delighted beyond measure. He did not know that everybody was
standing about the field watching him go, and trying to throttle
hysteric laughter. He thought that he was the hero of the hour. At last
they were nearly there. It was a good thing because he was beginning to
puff.
[Illustration:
“HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A
SLIPPER.”]
“Put it on that line,” said Rouse. “Put it down there, then touch it
down.”
He had arrived. He bent obediently and did as he was bid.
“There you are,” said Rouse happily. “You’ve scored a try.”
Arthur turned and looked round and about. Everywhere boys were throwing
caps into the air and cheering. It was a great moment. Toby had come up
and seemed to be speaking to him, but in the wild noise of applause he
could not distinguish a word. He grinned broadly.
At last the thunder of cheers died down.
“That’s Rugger,” said Toby. “It’s a great game. Don’t you think so?
You’ll play it all your life now. That’s your first game and you’ll
never forget it.”
He never did. Nobody who learns Rugger at Harley ever does.
* * * * *
The boy who had sat in the corner had been learning Rugger that
afternoon too, and as he walked slowly off the field a tall fellow,
considerably older than he, came up and touched him on the arm.
“What on earth are _you_ doing here?”
Bobbie Carr looked up, then slowly seemed to remember, and to the other
it appeared that he turned a little pale. At first he made no answer. He
just looked. Eventually he turned away.
The other still held his arm.
“D’you mean to say your father has sent you to a public school?” said
he.
He was not a nice-looking fellow. He had a remarkably long and
disproportionate nose. Also his lips had a sarcastic turn. His name was
Coles.
“This is _good_,” said he, and gave a short laugh. “I must write and
tell the gov’nor about this. He’ll be awfully amused. What do you think
the fellows here will say when they know what your father is?”
Bobbie Carr looked straight up at him, but there was a queer look of
anxiety on his face.
“They’re not going to know,” said he at last. “I’ve promised I wouldn’t
say.”
“I should think so,” said Coles. “You won’t be very happy here when they
find out he’s a——”
A figure came up suddenly from behind and moved between them. A large
hand rested upon Bobbie’s shoulder.
“Well, sonny,” said Rouse. “How did _you_ enjoy it?”