YESTERDAY’S CAPTAIN
The men of Rainhurst were undisguisedly perplexed. For the last two
hours Harley fellows had been arriving at the school, not openly, but in
mysterious driblets, looking about them as if in fear of being spotted
and yet decidedly proud to be on view. Moreover, as each party had
arrived they had been greeted by their predecessors with cordial
hand-shakings as if by way of congratulation on their safe arrival.
Now they were all gathered together in one great concourse just inside
the entrance to the school, whilst one amongst them, a strangely thin
boy with tremendous spectacles, stood out from the crowd and from a
position of vantage in the roadway was peering into the distance.
Whenever one of the Harley Fifteen appeared in sight this boy turned to
the waiting throng, lifted his hand in dignity above his head as if for
silence, and in a loud clear voice announced the gentleman’s name,
whereupon there followed a momentary silence until the player himself
appeared at the gate, when he was greeted with tumultuous applause.
It was all exceedingly odd.
The First Fifteen were coming, too, not in the appointed brake from the
station but just as the boys themselves had come, clandestinely and by
various routes, some by train, and others by cycle or by trap. The
captain of Rainhurst, who was watching it all with a frankly curious
stare, had never seen the like.
As time passed, however, it became evident that there was still some
further treat in store for those who were waiting at the gates. There
was that in their watchful attitude that one may see in the vast crowd
at any state procession that cheers its favourites as they pass, yet
waits in tense expectancy, keeping its greatest outburst for the great
one whom they have really come to see.
There became noticeable, too, an increased alertness in the manner of
the boy who was making the announcements. He peered more frequently and
rather more impatiently up and down the road. Sometimes he left his
position to secure a better view from the other side of the way.
Clearly the arrival of someone of real importance to them was expected
at any moment.
It came at last. The looker-out, who, though wholly self-appointed,
seemed to be treated with a tolerant courtesy and some respect by his
fellows, darted suddenly towards them and threw up his arm stiffly erect
above his head, pointing the way to heaven.
The silence was immediate.
“They’re coming,” said he. “Look out, it’s Rouse!”
In the respectful hush that had fallen upon the crowd there could be
heard distinctly a noise like the beating of a drum. Boys turned, one to
the other, in surprise. There was a minute’s keen expectancy. At last
solution came. Rouse hove into view, not as one might have expected a
popular hero to have appeared, nobly upon the shoulders of his comrades,
but hunched upon a bicycle, and the noise accompanying him was not the
beating of a drum: it was the bumping of a punctured back tyre on the
roadway. His long legs were driving the pedals with laborious care, and
between the strokes his knees were rising under his armpits. He was
flushed with exertion and suffering from acute self-consciousness, and
in this manner he turned in at the gate and came unsteadily along the
gravel path.
Now when Rouse had said that so soon as he was invited to process he
lost all interest in events he had spoken truly. He was never more
hopelessly uncomfortable than when he was the centre of admiration or
the object of prolonged applause, and during the present term he had had
more of this than he could manage. When he had first come into sight his
mind had, moreover, been so concentrated upon the importance of making
the turn at the gate without colliding with the wall that he did not
properly understand what all the cheering was about. He found out quite
suddenly, and in that moment, looking along the deep ranks of his
applauding followers and realising suddenly that it was all for him and
that he was once again the unwilling hero of the hour, he lost his nerve
entirely, slowed to a snail’s pace and suddenly fell off.
He stood up, not knowing where to look or what to do to stop their
cheering. Smythe came to his side and Rouse turned to him gratefully.
“I say, do tell them to shut up, will you?”
He was sorry to notice that Smythe brushed the point aside.
“Where on earth have you been?” he was demanding. “I thought you were
coming by trap?”
Rouse considered the point absent-mindedly.
“I thought so once, too. It seems a long time ago. I can hardly remember
the time when I wasn’t sitting on that bike.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. That has yet to be discovered. But when twenty minutes
had gone by and there was still no trap we decided we’d got to do
something about it. Every bicycle for hire in Harley had been booked up
a week ago, so there was nothing for it but to try our luck at cottages,
and at one I managed to borrow this.” He paused and took a deep breath.
“Until the old man of the house had lifted me into the saddle and given
me a lusty shove off down the hill I wasn’t at all sure that I could
ride a bicycle, but once the thing was fairly under way I didn’t dare to
fall off for fear I should never be able to get on again, so I just kept
on pushing the pedals round, and until I got inside these gates I
thought of nothing else but sticking on. It was all that cheering upset
me.”
“Something upset you I could plainly see,” said Smythe. “I thought you’d
ridden over a brick.”
Rouse turned with a haughty gesture and cast a contemplative eye upon
the bicycle.
“It’s been making that bumping noise ever since I started. I don’t know
whether there’s anything the matter with it.”
“It’s punctured,” said Smythe instructively.
“Is it? Quite likely. I’m no real judge of a bicycle, but I should think
it’s got everything the matter with it that it could have, including
mumps on the front tyre. Nick couldn’t borrow one at all, so he stopped
a kid who passed us on the road and they’ve been taking turn and turn
about ever since, one of them riding and the other balancing on one foot
on the step. I’ve seen worse trick cyclists at a music hall. They’re
both walking up the hill at present. The kid offered to walk all the way
and let Nick come on, but Nick said: ‘No fear. We’ve both got to be at
this match and they’ll wait for me, but they won’t wait for you.’”
He smiled reminiscently, then turned sharply on his heel. The cheering
had broken out anew. A small boy eaten up with pride was wearily riding
a bicycle into the school grounds, and as they watched, a tall
fair-haired young man dropped off the step and began to walk somewhat
stiffly through the crowd.
“That’s Nick,” said Smythe. “We’re all here now.”
Next moment another young man was at his elbow. A voice had interrupted
them apologetically. They turned and saw that it was the Rainhurst
captain, and with a slow whimsical smile Rouse held out his hand.
“I say, is this true? One of your chaps has just been telling me. Do you
mean to say you’ve come here absolutely on your own? Has your footer
been stopped? Don’t they know anything at all about it at the school?”
Rouse began to explain. Half-way through the other stopped him.
“Well, all I can say is that if you fellows have gone to all this sweat
just to save this match being scratched then you deserve to win it—and,”
he added thoughtfully, “I’m only sorry you won’t.”
Rouse laid a hand upon his arm.
“I wonder if you could show me where I could get a rub down? I don’t
know whether you’ve ever ridden from Harley on a punctured bike, but I
have—and only just.”
As he followed the other away down the gravel path he looked round at
the record crowd that, the cheering over, was now lining up along the
touch-lines. His eyes passed thoughtfully over those members of the home
side who were already taking casual place kicks on the field, and then
came back and settled in turn upon certain of his own team who were
coming slowly towards him from the changing-room. And in those few
moments a strange solemnity obsessed him. He found himself remembering
all that this lean year had meant to Harley. This was their first school
match, and it would be their only one. The season would stand alone in
history, and it was all on his account. He wondered whatever they could
see in him, or what sympathy he had aroused in them that could warrant
such devotion to one man. He was suddenly conscious of the weight of
responsibility that was his. He, who had meant the season to be so
famous in the annals of the school, had been the sole cause of the
miserable fiasco that it had become. And it seemed to him that if only
the school side could play such a game to-day as would be worth the
fellows having come to see, it might make some amends. As a team nothing
out of the way could be expected of them. They were only a scratch
Fifteen, and they had not yet had one single practice game together. No
one could foretell their capability. But he was their captain, and it
was possible that by setting the example he might get each man on the
side to play the game of his life. In the eyes of the Head he was
yesterday’s captain, and Christopher Woolf Roe was to-day’s.
Well, when the story of this one match came to be written it should, if
he could by one day’s captaincy ordain it, stand out as the greatest in
the school’s long history. That would be some slight consolation to all
those who had missed the game that was so near their hearts throughout
this miserable term.
He changed and came out into the open and found his team, and all the
while he could not find a word to say to anyone. Yet as they stood
waiting silently for him to lead them out, he turned to them with a
sudden spontaneity.
“Look here, the fellows have come no end of a distance and some of them
may not get back before roll-call, but it’s in our power to give them a
game that’ll keep them talking till the end of the year and make them
proud to have been at school this term instead of half ashamed. I want
you to do it. This is the only chance we shall have. Let’s make this
match worth having played in.”
He stopped abruptly. It suddenly occurred to him that he was talking
heroics for perhaps the first time in his life. And so with a sudden
awkward smile he turned and led the way out. No one spoke; but as they
followed him out into the open the spirit that had prompted Rouse was
stirring in every breast.
The moments passed. The teams were lining up. The whistle blew. Rouse
stood in readiness behind his team, casting an affectionate eye over
each member of it as he moved to his appointed place. Then at last, to
the tune of the most whole-hearted shout of “Harley” that Rouse had ever
heard, the Rainhurst captain lifted the ball gently over the heads of
Harley’s forwards and the school half had misfielded. There was a rush
of hurrying forwards towards the mark and the Rainhurst pack were down
and shoving. Now the handicap of a lean year was transparent. The school
men were slow in getting down. Before they were properly packed the ball
had been in and out, and the Rainhurst threes were slinging it away to
the wing, where a youngster with the pace of a stag was coming down the
touch-line to take his pass. There flew across Rouse’s view sudden
patches of the Harley colours; the school backs racing across and
bringing down man after man; but the ball had travelled too fast for
them to reach and the Rainhurst wing took it safely, ran in and kicked
high and faithfully across. Rouse watched with set eyes as in mid-air
the wind caught the ball and carried it swerving out of its course;
then, as it began to fall, he saw his chance, darted along the goal-line
and cut in under it. He had one hurried vision of a man in the Rainhurst
grey and green flying towards him and gazing upward. He took no notice.
He just fetched out a sudden burst of resolute speed, took the ball from
the other’s reach in his stride, bowled him over and left him on the
grass. Then he kicked. The ball sailed up-field like a bird and, far
over the distant touch-line by the Rainhurst twenty-five, fell neatly
out of play.
He had gained the school relief, but now he grew gravely anxious for the
future. He did not like the way those Rainhurst threes had come away to
threaten his line so early. It was ominous. He contracted his mouth
severely as he saw the ball thrown out of touch and the forwards
scrambling round it for possession. Once his own men had it, but the
pack were not properly together and it was lost. Then the game opened up
and the Rainhurst backs got on the move again. Somebody dropped a pass.
There came another scrum. Rouse saw that Rainhurst had it once more and
were heeling like clockwork. The Harley forwards were being beaten every
time. From his own position on the field he could watch all this as if
from the pit stalls of a theatre, and it kept him on tenterhooks. Once
he was moving up happily behind his team, driving them on with mighty
punts up-field whenever the ball came within his reach, when, quite
suddenly, there flashed into the picture the Rainhurst backs racing
across the field, wheeling and coming down upon him with the ball, and
the whole phase of the game was changed. He drew back. He saw the Harley
men move up against the coming line, watching with beating heart to see
if they could shatter it. But the combination of this team in the attack
was paramount. Every Harley back had made his tackle, and the ball was
still in the hands of a man in grey and green. There were others running
beside him. Where they had come from he had no time to guess. But so
soon as a Rainhurst man was down another seemed to have darted into his
place. He waited cautiously. He was the last line of defence. If he made
but one mistake now Rainhurst were through. He must choose the
psychological moment and he must pick the right man. There was not one
second to spare. Everything in his wide field of view faded away, and
the only thing that he could see was the fast magnifying picture of a
line of figures in grey and green on top of him. The moment had come. He
picked his man, and as he moved to take the ball, Rouse hurtled across
his front, swung round his legs, and, breathless with the thud of
collision, hung on. The ball flew wide, but he was too late to reach it;
a gigantic boot whizzed past his face and carried it on towards the
Harley line. The Rainhurst forwards pattered past him. The game had gone
by and he was out of it, but he had given his own side time and the
Harley men were back and defending stoutly.
After that it was give and take, and the game would not shift out of the
Harley twenty-five. One high punt carried the ball out of the ruck, and
Smythe came in from the wing and gathered it neatly. There was a quick
expectant hush whilst he started away, and Terence was up alongside with
safe hands ready for his pass. The ball jumped into his arms and he had
it safely and was cutting with lowered head into the bunch of forwards
who were hovering round him. A new shout of hope went up from the Harley
side of the ground, but it was premature. The last to be seen of Terence
was the vision of his body being dragged to earth by three men in grey
and green, whilst the ball worked out into the open. Without delay those
dangerous Rainhurst forwards, perfectly together, were round it in a
herd. They were coming down-field with it at their toes as if it were
merely a practice dribble. The sight of Coles darting into the picture,
and flinging himself upon it, relieved anxiety for a moment, but he was
somehow bundled out of the way and the pack came on. Rouse got ready
again. The fellows on the touch-line saw him crouching for his spring
and knew that he would never let them through. But in the tenseness of
the moment their voices grew hushed and they could only wait. A sudden
diversion saved the day. One hulking forward in the front rank of the
Rainhurst pack had kicked the ball too hard and it had bounced out of
reach. In a flash their chance had gone. Smythe came across their front
at a sprint, gathered the ball with extended hands and carried it clear.
Again the shouting started. Smythe had it safely and his wing was clear
for twenty yards. He bent to his task and ran. One of the Rainhurst
halfbacks was pounding behind him, but had not the pace to make the
tackle. Smythe shook him off and looked for his own three-quarters. They
had shaped out into position and were well in motion. Then the Rainhurst
wing, whose duty was to mark Smythe, came in with a rush and he passed
the ball; but as he spun sideways and was dragged down on to his back he
had the horrifying vision vouchsafed him of another man in grey and
green speeding away with that same ball on his chest, whilst Terence was
pounding after him and reaching desperately for his jersey. There was
one tense moment of doubt and fear, then the sprinting man had swerved
past Lister and had only Rouse to beat. Just as before, Rouse came into
the picture with a dashing enthusiasm and took his man at a gallop. The
Rainhurst runner had no chance. In two seconds it was all over and Rouse
was scrambling to his feet, whilst the school forwards, a badly bustled
pack, came round and struggled for the ball. It came out and somebody
fell on it, so that there followed another scrum. Again it worked loose
on the Rainhurst side, but Coles smothered the lucky half before he
could get it away, and not an inch was gained. At last Saville, seeing
the ball bouncing before his eyes, grabbed at it and punted for touch.
But the Rainhurst blood was up and they meant to score. The game had
settled upon the Harley twenty-five and nothing could move it on.
Rainhurst were too good. Every scrum went in their favour. They could do
everything but cross the line. Time and again their threes seemed safely
away and would have scored, had not there shone from out the Harley
Fifteen a wondrous individuality of play that held them. There was
always one who darted in at the critical moment and scooped the ball
into his keeping or downed the man who had it. His instinct of defence
was magical. He seemed ubiquitous and impregnable, and through Harley’s
rough time he held together a team that were weary of tackling by an
outstanding energy that made him a standard-bearer to his side.
Wherever he could be seen at grips with the attacking host the Harley
men rallied around him. He grew discoloured with mud and the bruises of
continuous collision and became unlike himself, but so long as they
could identify his shape the vast crowd never ceased to shout his name.
And so when half time came and play stopped suddenly there was set upon
the field a tableau.
Yesterday’s captain stood unconquered upon his line, with his scratch
team gathered round him, and the Rainhurst men were held.
There came a gracious interval, and on to the field moved streams of
enthusing Harleyans who clapped upon the back each member of the team
that they could reach, whilst Rouse moved this way and that amongst his
men, whispering words of counsel for the even greater battle that was to
come.
“You were fine,” he said to each in turn, “but we haven’t scored yet.”
They nodded grimly, making their own resolve in secret, and so when the
whistle blew again, and the ball was once more lifted into the air, it
was Harley who started the attack.
The forwards, as if in an effort to make up for their clear defeat in
the scrum, gathered the ball amongst them and took it away up-field with
an all-devouring dash. For a little while the Rainhurst men were
staggered. Harley made way by grim degrees towards their goal. Close up,
Betteridge, who was long in the arm, contrived to reach the ball and
toss it back over his head to the neighbourhood where the three-quarters
were waiting eagerly. Terence jumped sideways and took it as it bounced;
but a stalwart figure in grey and green was upon him before he could
make away, and the chance was gone. Yet Harley would not be denied. The
great shouting from their fellows on the touch-line kept them at it.
Again and again the ball was taken forward at a pell-mell rush, only to
be suddenly gathered and punted back by Rainhurst.
And at these times it was Rouse who nipped in and fielded it as it fell,
so that great punts into touch, far up, kept the school at the right
end.
The suddenness with which Rainhurst turned their defence into attack
proved the greatness of their side. For a full ten minutes they had been
hard pressed, and no one knew how it was that their stand-off half found
that wonderful opening. Yet in some way he had caught the Harley men all
on one side of the ground. A high punt carried the ball towards him and
he took it on the run, and kicked down the field. It dropped midway
between Rouse and himself, and he had just that extra turn of speed that
enabled him to get to it first. He held it for a bare moment whilst he
swerved, then he had kicked again, high over Rouse’s head, and was
following up as before. The luck was all his. The try depended on the
bounce of the ball, and it bounced straight into his hands. Afterwards
it was only a question of pace; he had that pace and he scored far out.
Slowly and solemnly Harley lined up under the posts. They heard the
frenzied cheering of the Rainhurst boys and bore it patiently. But Rouse
said never a word, and only those who took a covert glance at him knew
what must be passing in his mind.
The place kick went wide, and so the game restarted. And now the
shouting for Harley, hoarse with strain, seemed, nevertheless, redoubled
into a roar of pleading. Just once Rouse looked towards them. Then he
turned back to the game and was pacing slowly across the field, staring
with set eyes at the scramble for the ball as it came out from touch.
Time passed. Fellows on the line began to glance nervously at their
watches, but he seemed to take no count of it. He just moved always
behind his team, nursing each movement with consummate understanding and
calling to them gently by name when the play opened up.
At last their opportunity came.
Almost upon the Rainhurst twenty-five a free kick was awarded Harley.
The shouting died away. The crowded touch-line suddenly grew still.
Rouse moved forward. He looked round for Coles. Coles was the best
drop-kick in the school. It mattered not to Rouse that this might prove
the winning effort of the match, and that if so the certainty existed
that Coles would know how to turn it to good account. The school came
first. He called to Coles:
“Try for goal.”
Coles went to the mark, looked round him almost nervously, took careful
aim; the ball fell and he met it beautifully on the bounce with his toe.
It was a great kick, and at first it seemed to have scored. Yet just
beside the goal the breeze caught it and held it up. It dropped slowly
just on the wrong side of the posts. Coles turned away distressfully. He
took no notice of the cordial clapping. He had failed. Rainhurst took
heart again. Over and over again they broke away, only to be smothered
by the irresistible tackling of Rouse’s chosen backs. They had earned
one try and it was clear that it had been the most they could do. It was
not an effort that could be repeated. Harley could prevent it, but there
was something they could not do. They could not find the way through to
that other goal-line that would mean so much to them. At last this
seemed to be borne in upon them slowly and they began to tire. They were
losing and their hearts were failing them. Rouse could see it. He said
no word. Instead he grew more resolute in manner and more wonderful in
his own kicks, knowing that nothing can pull a tired team together like
example. Somehow or other they would have to score. He was their captain
and it was his task to whip them into a last desperate effort that would
carry someone over that line. If they could not win this match, then at
least they should not be beaten. He began to grow restless. Time was
passing quickly. He felt that great responsibility upon him again. He
had been chosen captain. If he could not somehow get one try out of this
side from Harley then he was not a worthy leader. They had to cross that
line. It was his task to make them. Only so could the greatness of this
match be capped. Only so could this day be marked for always in red
letters on the school’s official calendar.
And then, suddenly enough, the ball worked loose and a Rainhurst man,
bearing down upon it, had gathered it into his arms and was away. Smythe
was out of position and he had a clear field. Coles sped diagonally
across the field and with a gallant effort almost reached him, but the
Rainhurst man had too great a pace and escaped by inches. As he ran he
looked urgently for his partner. Not only his own centre but the whole
of the Rainhurst line were with him. He glanced along it delightedly,
saw it moving with him at top speed, and then he looked ahead. There was
only one man to pass—a tired man, discoloured with the stain of battle.
One man against a line. He ran in a little, ready for a swerve, prepared
to pass. The one man watched him as he came with glassy eyes. The moment
came. Rouse moved to make his tackle. As he did so the Rainhurst man
flung the ball towards the centre, and in that moment he realised his
mistake.
In those precious seconds that Rouse had had in which to make his quick
decision he had realised that, with a complete line running with him,
the man with the ball would not attempt to get through on his own. It
was an isolated case in which he would be justified in not tackling that
man. Once he, the last line of defence, was down and out of action, the
Rainhurst line were through and a try was a virtual certainty.
He had bent to a dummy tackle, then straightening instantly he sprang
into the air and intercepted the pass. Next second he was away with it
on his chest.
In that moment the little world around the field went wild. The whole of
the Rainhurst line had passed him and were looking back dazedly over
their shoulder. Before him the field of play opened out, and he saw that
the way was clear. Until he had summoned his utmost speed he looked
neither to right nor left, but when at last he was running as only a man
extended to the last degree can run he glanced around for aid, and it
was there. Terence was sprinting beside him like one possessed, and his
voice rang wildly across the open:
“With you! With you!”
It was enough. Rouse turned again to his front and called out one extra
yard of inhuman pace. He knew now that he was not alone. The day was
saved. A man in grey and green sprang across his path, and Rouse handed
him off and sent him staggering aside. Then he could see that, just as
when the Rainhurst line had come upon him, so now he had come upon his
rival back, and he saw him preparing for his tackle.
He moved his hands and began to circle them ready to give his pass.
Just beyond Terence he caught a quick glimpse of Smythe flying down the
touch-line in an effort to draw alongside. The deafening cheers of young
men leaning over the ropes and beating the air with caps were urging him
on.
Then the moment had come. He swerved in slightly, made ready, and flung
the ball straight and true into Terence’s hands.
A baby could not have dropped it.
And as the Rainhurst man came at him and brought him down on his side,
he saw the flying figure of Terence darting over the line and grounding
the ball between the posts.
At that moment he would have given his kingdom to have stayed where he
fell upon the grass, and to have lain in peace until the aching in his
weary limbs had passed.
Yet he scrambled up. The air was thick with waving hats. He shouted to
Smythe, but in the din no one could hear his voice.
So he signalled the order, and Smythe went slowly to the mark and took
the kick. In a deadly hush the ball rose into the air and dropped truly
and gracefully over the bar.
In the turmoil that followed the referee’s no-side whistle was scarcely
heard. Rouse looked round hopelessly. There was no way out. Wave upon
wave of shouting Harley maniacs were bearing down on him from every
side.
He was seized and shaken, found himself lifted up by the legs. He tried
to break free. It was utterly useless. So at last he looked at them
wearily in turn.
And then he smiled.
For this one day he had been their captain. Nothing mattered now.