THE HURLING MATCH
"Toms, Wills and Jans
Take off all's on the sands."
--_St. Ives' Hurlers._
"Gware wheag, yeo gware teag."
Fair play is good play.
--_Ancient Cornish Hurler's Motto._
"Gware wheag, yeo gware teag," roared Dick, as he seized Ande by the
shoulders and engaged in a playful wrestle, in which, however, he was
worsted, for the latter, though taken by surprise, soon had Dick down on
the sward of the Bowling Green.
"Now," said he, "is it fair play for a wrestle, or is there something
else in the wind? What's up?"
"Can't guess, old fellow?"
"No, unless it's hurling, my elephantine infant. There is nothing that
stirs your blood like that. Is it hurling?"
"Aye, you've got it," and tumbling up from the sod, Dick shook his huge
frame and adjusted his neckerchief that had become slightly awry in the
brief wrestling match.
"Who's challenged the school?" asked Ande, with a little trace of
excitement.
"The louts of Breage parish. Their captain, a husky chap, brought in a
challenge. Squire Vivian, Sir James Lanyan, and other gentlemen put up a
prize of ten pounds and a fine hurling ball to the victors. The hurling
ball has a silver plate on it, with the old motto engraved on it, and
the school decided to accept the challenge. The gentlemen are anxious
for the school to wipe out an old score against Breage that happened
years ago in a match against that parish. They are going to elect a
captain of the school team and so I hurried off to find the Dane."
"Well, here I am, my husky Ajax," and Ande, seizing Dick's arm, hurried
with him up to the Grammar School.
At the school there was bustle and excitement. The schoolroom was
crowded with sixth and fifth form boys, and the interest of the lesser
forms was noticed in the babbling of many tongues. Jordan, the monitor,
the sage of the sixth, presided, and rapped for order, and the mass of
lads crowded to their respective places. In calm, even tones, he speaks.
"We know why we are here. The captain of the Breage hurlers has just
left us with our acceptance of the challenge to a hurling match. For the
glory and honour of the school, and to wipe out an old score against us,
we are going to play them, though they have forty stout fellows, and we
are a little deficient in number. We are going to make up in training
and zeal what we lack in number, and we are going to win the prize. But
a great deal depends upon the captain we elect to lead us. He must be
skilful, active, resourceful. In the election we must not be influenced
by favouritism, but by worth. The sixth has heretofore always had the
captain, but in this match I would recommend that the fifth be eligible
also. If there is no objection, we will proceed to elect a captain from
the sixth and fifth."
There were a few murmurs of disapproval from the sixth, but no open
objections, so the election proceeded. Jordan was wise in his bringing
in the fifth as eligible to the captaincy, for in that form were the
best hurlers, the strongest, the most daring.
In the first ballot there was a scattering of votes, but the chief
candidates were Ande and Dick, the latter on account of his experience
and strength, the former on account of his activity, mental and
physical.
Once more the ballots were taken and Ande won. There was a cheer, in
which Dick heartily joined, for he had been urging the lads from the
beginning to choose his friend.
And now began the enlisting of the team. To even up the deficiency in
numbers, several of the town's expert hurlers were admitted.
The next evening, on the Bowling Green, began the practice and training.
There was wrestling, running, tumbling, jumping, and kindred exercises
to improve the agility and endurance of the crew. Three times a week
there was a long run to Porthleven, and even to Breage and back, to
improve the wind of the team, and get them more thoroughly acquainted
with the ground. Dick and a few others needed constant practice to
improve their quickness and activity.
The eventful day came at length, in the beautiful month of April, and
forth from Helston sallied the hurling crew, followed by a hurrahing
company of spectators. Halfway between the parishes the Breage men were
lined up, with the gentlemen on one side to start the ball. Ande and the
Breage captain consulted with the gentlemen about the rules.
"The object is to carry the ball, as soon as it is touched off, to your
respective towns and hurl the same in through the open parish church
doors," said Squire Vivian.
"Aye, us knaws that," said the Breage man, "but how about rules?
Wrastling, passing, hurling, all to be allowed in the old style, or be
there any changes?"
"All to be done in the old style unless you wish, both of you, to make
modifications," said another of the gentlemen.
No modifications being advanced the captains returned to their stations
and began to arrange their men. Then Ande anxiously consults with Dick
and the other leaders of his side. He is once more outlining his
signals. He has a small boatswain's whistle. One blast signifies close
up on the ball; two sharp blasts means scatter out in the rear; three
blasts, in quick succession, call the attention of the dogs to expected
action on their part. Jordan nods his head gravely, as he listens to the
captain, Dick shakes himself like a great mastiff, as if he would rather
be engaged in active play than listen to rules. The gentlemen are sizing
up the players and putting bets on either side, according to their
fancy.
The heavy players, with Dick in the centre, are well up in front. There
are some twenty of these, and they will make their weight and prowess
felt ere the game is over. Back of them stands the captain, and back
still beyond him, some ten players of lighter build, upon whose
quickness and agility depend much. But who are those some two hundred
yards farther back on the road to Helston? They are lighter players from
the fourth and third forms, hard as pine knots, trained to perfection in
fleetness of foot, and able to dodge and race like hares. They are the
captain's latest addition to the efficiency of his team. They are to
serve in the capacity of "dogs," as Ande calls them. They are to watch
their chances; not to engage in the scrimmages where weight will tell,
but to grasp the ball when opportunity comes, and speed with it to their
own goal. Notice them playfully wrestling with each other, filling in
the time until the game opens.
The Breage men are not thus trained or lined up. They depend more upon
individual action and weight of their numbers than tactics. But now
there is a movement up in front. The players are all in position.
"Are you ready?" shouts a gentleman, preparatory to casting off the
ball. He is standing to one side, in front of the other gentlemen and
spectators, and is holding the new hurling ball in his hand.
An affirmative answer is given from both captains, and up goes the ball
in the air, midway between the two contesting parties. The next instant
there is a charge of both heavy brigades for its possession as it
descends. An outstretched hand catches it, and then there is a furious
heap of wriggling arms and legs, and then who is it that is speeding
away towards Breage, with a shout of triumph on his lips? It is the
Breage captain. He is fully determined to race at that speed the two
miles intervening between him and his own parish church, and he is going
to hurl the ball, now in his possession, in through the Breage church
door, and thus win the game. But not so fast. Two miles is quite a
stretch, and there is some one on his track. Out from behind the mass of
prone players leaps a form, like a horse and rider from the clouds of
battle smoke. In one bound he has cleared the heap of wriggling bodies
on the ground, and then, with the speed of a greyhound, he is after the
Breage man. Will he overtake him? Oh, yes. If he can't, no one else can.
Dick and his sub-lieutenants rest from their exertions. They are
confident that the ball will be back ere long. A cheer goes up from the
heavy brigade of the Helston players.
"He has him!"
"He has downed him!"
"He has the ball!"
It was true. The school captain had leaped on the back of the runner,
and with a cute, wrestling trick brought him to the ground. The ball
flew out of his hand and was possessed the next instant by the Helston
captain, who was now returning with full speed. But now a new obstacle
presents itself in the shape of the great mass of Breage players. Will
he charge through them, elude them? No, there are too many for that.
There are two shrill blasts on the boatswain's whistle, and along the
Helston road, in the rear of their heavy brigade, scatter out the school
men. They understand the signal and are ready to catch the ball. Then,
just as the Breage men are upon him, out goes the hand, and with the
full force of his muscular right arm, the ball is hurled full a hundred
and fifty yards, over their heads, on the way to Helston.
A member of the light brigade caught it and was racing the next moment
with might and main toward the town. There is a whoop and hallo among
the dogs, as with their best efforts they strive to keep ahead of the
runner, to be ready for an emergency throw, should he be overtaken. And
now, in the rear, great Dick and his warriors of the heavy brigade get
in their work, and work it is. It is no easy task for twenty or thirty
fellows to stop and hinder the forty husky Breage men that are resolved
to overtake the runner. Dick is in his element. He has profited by
Captain Ande's training. In a twinkling he has thrown a half a dozen
players to the ground, and is preparing to actively hinder others. The
Breage men are swearing under their breath. But "Old Ironsides," as the
boys dubbed Dick after his memorable encounter with Ande, could not
handle all, and some there were that escaped around the wings and were
speeding after the Helston player. It is Ande, the captain, who sees the
danger.
There is a sharp blast on the whistle, the signal for the heavy brigade
to close up on the ball. The light brigade are no match in a scrimmage
against the great Breage men. They must have the assistance of the
heavy brigade, and away go the heavy first line men, Dick lumbering
along in a clumsy gallop, yet with considerable speed.
Three sharp blasts on the captain's whistle, and the dogs prepare with
alertness, for action. And it is time, for a Breage man has seized the
Helston runner. He promptly hurls on the ball. It is caught by one of
the dogs in front, who sets off with it at full speed, accompanied by
his fellows. These young striplings have not raced over moors and downs
in the game of fox and hounds for nothing. See how he runs, dodging the
great Breage men, who are now almost upon him. Ah, he is caught at last,
but the ball is in the hands of another dog, passed to him rapidly in
the time of danger. But now the light brigade are also among the dogs,
and the heavy brigade is following up fast in the rear. The Breage men
have been split into two factions, fifteen of them in front, among the
light brigade, the others still in the rear of the heavy brigade men of
the school team.
The second dog is caught, but he has time to hurl the ball to a light
brigade runner near him, who as promptly hurls it on to the light
runners ahead. One of the dogs seizes it and instantly diverges from the
road to the fields. He realises that he has a much better chance among
the hedges and fields than on the highroad with the big runners of
Breage. Over the hedge go the runners of Breage. A little farther on the
Helston light brigade men also leap the hedge and seek to hinder their
progress. The heavy brigade follow suit. And now follows a battle
royal. Helston and Breage men are close on the ball, and the Breage men
are battling hard, for the town of Helston is but a scant quarter of a
mile distant.
A crowd of sightseers line the road and hedges, for is not this for the
glory of Helston and her grammar school? Labourers, with their shovels
on their shoulders, farmers, with their produce, all are anxiously
watching. They have come to see the ball brought in. They know it will
be victory for the school, now it is so near.
Bravos, hurrahs, sound on all sides. The dogs and light brigade men are
jubilant with expectation. The brook, or river Cober, is in sight. Could
the runner make the bridge, or even dash through the flood, victory
seemed sure. But no, there is a swift Breage man on his track, and bids
fair to overtake him. He has him, and he hurls the ball toward town.
It was an unlucky throw, for splash!--it is in the river. Nothing
daunted, a light brigade man has leaped in after it, and then a Breage
man on top of him, and then others, until the little stream is choked
with wrestling bodies, heaving, gasping, and the air is full of spray.
"'E 'as it! Bravo!" shouted the enthusiastic Helston spectators.
"Now, clear the way for un!" shouted a town beadle, as he made the
people stand back to give the runner a clear track to their own town.
To their dismay and open-mouthed chagrin, it was the Breage captain that
leaped out of the stream, ball in hand, and charging like a bull
through the light brigade men, he scatters them right and left like
chaff before the wind. With a whoop and hallo, the heavy brigade strive
to block him, but he makes a detour, leaps another hedge, and is
speeding through another field. What matter brambles or thorns, the game
must be saved for Breage.
"Ah! dear! dear! us thought 'e was our man, but it 'twas t'other side,"
said some Helston labourers, as they gazed after the rapidly receding
players.
"Ah wadn't fair, so ah wadn't," said others, disconsolately.
"Us may as well go back to market; the day is lost for Helston," said
several farmers, as they turned from the scene.
"Man alive! Did 'ee see 'ow 'e runned. Ah runned like a white-head."
With many similar expressions, the crowd of spectators melted away.
But follow the runner of Breage. By leaping successive hedges he has
distanced the pursuers, but he is some degree out of his course, and
makes obliquely for the highway. The Helston players perceive his
purpose, and gain the highway first. Here they can make faster progress.
By the time the Breage captain vaults the hedge with a few of his
fellows, the van of the Helston crew, their captain in the lead, is but
a hundred yards in the rear. And now comes a race with fair footing. The
heavy brigade is closing up fast, and the light and dogs running rapidly
in the rear. He is overtaken at last, but the ball is hurled onward to
Breage. A Breage runner seizes it and speeds rapidly onward. It was now
Breage's chance, and they were doing their best. Ande blew his whistle
valiantly for his men to close up on the ball. And close up they did,
running with a will. The course again diverged from the highway and
approached near the coast. He is downed at last without chance to hurl
the ball. Quickly on top of him pile the other runners in the lead.
"Off of me; I've lost the ball!"
It was the Breage man underneath who had shouted, and the five or six
players on top of him slowly arose, gazed at each other, then for the
hurling ball, but it had disappeared as if by magic.
The players arrived one by one, panting hard with their exertion, but
the ball was not found. A new ball was forthcoming for the emergency,
tossed off by a ploughman, and the fierce contest renewed. All the
remainder of the afternoon the battle went on, victory favouring,
smiling, on one side, then on the other. The players showed the effect
of their hard usage. The dogs were torn and bleeding with brambles and
thorns, and of the hue of earth from their constant contact with it. The
larger players were also battered and soiled, but they only played the
harder. Sunset was approaching and gilded the western heavens with hues
of scarlet. The ball was once more stopped within a quarter-mile of
Helston. The brook, or river Cober, had been passed. The heavy brigade,
the light brigade, and even the dogs, were mingled in one great heap
with Breage men. Who had the ball was a mystery. A Breage runner had it
when he went down. It was Dick who downed him. The Breage men were
desperate, the school men determined. Tenny, Creakle, Jordan, and others
resolved that the ball should not leave them thus close to victory.
But suddenly the great mound was heaved and tossed like the earth
undulated by an earthquake.
"Pin 'im down! Hold un!" roared the Breage captain. "E's their man, and
'e's got the ball!"
The dogs and lighter men nimbly stepped aside to make way and assist
their own runner. The Breage players made a last futile effort to hold
the runner down.
"'Old un! 'Old un! damme, can none hold un!" shouted the Breage captain,
in wrath at the apparent weakness of his men.
Frantically the Breage men piled on the heap, but of no avail, for there
crept at that moment from the mound a great hulking form with the ball.
He was on his feet the next instant and speeding away toward town,
cheered on by the dogs and light brigade and spectators.
The Breage captain, with an oath of rage, hurling to right and left,
like feathers, his own and the school men that impeded him, leaped upon
the brawny runner's shoulders and sought to bring him to earth; but
though hampered, the Helston runner strode on.
Now, like the phalanx of an army, the school men spread out, and with
blocking tactics, withheld those that would follow. On went the runner,
unimpeded, save by the human burden on his shoulders, the Breage
captain, who in vain sought to drag him down. The ascent to old St.
Michael's was reached at last, and up went the runner, striding on. It
was harder progress now, but the open church door was near. Another few
yards and the game was won. He is there at last. The runner's arm shoots
out. The Breage captain strives in vain to catch and deter the aim, but
the ball is gone, flung with unerring hand straight through the open
tower door. The victory was won. Helston school had wiped out the score
against Breage.
What cheers and what bravos resounded on all sides! The bells of old St.
Michael's pealed out in concert with the acclamations of the people. The
Breage crew were humiliated, especially the captain, but on every other
countenance there was the gladness of victory won.
A feast was held in the school that night on a part of the prize money.
Jordan was master of ceremonies. Around him clustered the warriors of
the day, their garments, wet and soiled, now changed to clean and dry.
With his arm extended for silence, he exclaimed:
"Who saved the day and brought in the ball with the Breage captain on
his back? Who saved the game?"
"Dick Thomas!" was the roaring answer.
"Here's a huzza for Old Ironsides!" shouted another.
The cheer was given and the toast followed, and then they sang, "For
He's a Jolly Good Fellow."
"A speech, Dick," shouted some one.
Dick arose and there was more cheering. "Well, I don't know whether old
Dick Dullhead can make a speech."
Here there were protests of "No Dullhead any more, but Old Ironsides."
"Well, I want to drink a toast and I want you all to drink the same.
Here's to the fellow that made Dick Dullhead a name and fellow of the
past, and made me Dick Ironsides instead. Here's to the one that trained
all of us so faithfully and well that each one of us had the swiftness,
strength, and endurance to win the game. Here's to the fellow that so
trained me that I was able to carry both ball and Breage captain to the
goal. Here's to our valiant captain, Ande Trembath."
There was a storm of cheers as they responded; but where was Ande?
Though he had been missed since the regular ball had disappeared, yet
every one had supposed him among the crowd somewhere. Now calls for the
captain were on all sides, but he was not present.
The majority, believing that he was out, but would be in shortly, kept
up the feasting, singing, and speaking.
Dick, after an inquiry here and there, went out and disappeared in the
night.