STURTON'S POLICY IS VINDICATED
The great day at length arrived, the day on which Ranleigh was to rise
to the giddy heights of success, or to fall once more beneath the
hitherto superior attack of Parkland boys. A cold wintry sun peeped in
at the dormer windows of the dormitories as the boys were rising, and
set them cheering. They started the noise in West, actually in West
Dormitory, where Norman, in place of scowling severely upon the
delinquents, even encouraged them. The cheering was taken up in all the
four South Dormitories, so loudly too, that the Head, still abed in his
own house close adjacent, turned out in a violent hurry.
"What's that?" he demanded, appearing on the landing in dressing-gown
and slippers, a somewhat dishevelled object it must be admitted, and one
at the moment hardly likely to have awed the school had he come before
them. "What's that, Jarvis?"
The latter was a youth employed about the house, at that moment on his
knees and supposed to be scrubbing the hall floor. But Jarvis was not
at work. He was listening intently, and just before the eager question
was flung at him he actually raised his scrubbing brush, waved it
violently overhead and gave vent to a cheer of his own.
"Stop that nonsense!" commanded the Head. "What's this stupid noise
for?"
Jarvis, still brush in air, gaped at him in horror. Then he grinned.
After all, those who knew the Head knew him to be a very human
individual, with an overpowering love for Ranleigh and all that went to
make the school a success. "Please, sir," he began, and then grinned
again, while a thunderous burst of cheering came through the open hall
windows and swelled past the ears of the waiting Head. "Please, sir,
it's the day," grinned Jarvis. "You've forgotten, sir."
"Day! Of course it's day. It isn't night, stupid!"
"But _the_ day, sir," came the answer.
The Head stamped impatiently. No one was more anxious that Ranleigh
should win the coming match. But, for all that, he had other worries and
anxieties, those common to all headmasters, and for the moment he had
forgotten that this was the day of trial. Then he remembered and gasped.
"To be sure! To be sure, Jarvis! But this noise is most unseemly.
I--er----"
He paused for a moment and then disappeared. "Leave 'em to it," he told
himself, with a smile. "Boys will be boys. A little noise means
encouragement. Let 'em continue."
Ranleigh boys did, with a vengeance. The fellows in North had taken the
matter up long ago. Any other morning they would have still been abed,
snuggled down till the very last moment, till they must rush to the
indoor bath there to take their dip. Now they were up, with towels
waving overhead, shouting to drown the cheers from South. As to East,
the lusty Harper himself set an example, which all followed, even
Rawlings, though somewhat feebly. And then, having had their dip, the
School dressed with unwonted care and elaboration.
"Of course, you fellows will have to sport the School colours," said
Masters to the few smaller boys near him in the dormitory, boys with
whom his reputation was certainly enlarged since his addition to the
ranks of the Old Firm. "You haven't got any, Tompkins. Then you'll jolly
well have to find 'em. Sneak someone else's if you can."
"Can't," declared the youthful Tompkins, looking about him helplessly.
"I've tried. Carter caught me in the act and swore he'd report me for
prigging."
"Can't! There ain't no such word," said Masters severely, though he had
used it often enough himself. "Ah! Bright idea! Look here, young un.
I've two sets. I'll sell you one. Here we are. Dirt cheap! Two bob,
money down."
That caused Tompkins to look askance at the great Masters. He had a very
shrewd idea that, whatever the condition of the tie he was asked to
purchase, he would certainly not be getting the best of the bargain. He
was sure of it a few seconds later, when the article was produced. It
was one which Masters had himself bought second, or more likely third or
fourth hand, and it bore unmistakable evidence of hard and long wear.
Tompkins turned his nose up.
"That!" he exclaimed. "Two bob! Not me!"
"Look here," said Masters. "None of your cheek, kid. It's a bargain; and
you'll be jolly well kicked if you don't sport colours."
The end of the matter was that the seller deigned to take sixpence, the
same to be paid by weekly instalments of one penny, Tompkins being by no
means flush. Their dressing was hastily completed, when they rushed down
for call-over and Chapel. Later, at breakfast, heads were turned from
all directions to watch the various members of the team on whom the
honour of Ranleigh was to depend. Those lucky gentlemen were eating
stolidly and with satisfaction. It was clear that, whatever the ordeal
before them, their appetites were not impaired. As for Sturton, he was
positively boisterous.
"We'll put up a game, at any rate," he told Bagshaw across the scholars'
table. "We'll give those Parkland fellows the game of their lives."
"And don't forget," cautioned his friend, "steady does it. Training is
everything. If Parkland fellows are as fit as ours, why, then the
tussle'll be all the harder. But if they're not, then we should come
along well after half's called. That'll be the time to break up their
defence and run through 'em. So keep our chaps in hand at first. Let 'em
break out hard once the match is half finished."
There was anxiety even on the faces of the masters. And why not? They
were every bit as keen as any of the boys. The Old Firm, usually so
truculent and full of spirits, was quite subdued during morning school.
The fate of the great day hung like a load upon their shoulders.
"What'd we do if we were beaten?" asked Clive desperately. "Ranleigh'd
go clean to the dogs."
"Rot!" came Bert's characteristic answer. "We'd just grind away again,
and beat 'em next time, certain. But Ranleigh's going to win. I've put
my bat against Masters' tennis shoes, and must have 'em. You'll see.
Sturton'll pull us through, and those tennis shoes fit me to a T."
Susanne, the friendly Susanne, actually nodded to Rawlings on this great
day, while Trendall failed to scowl at him as had been his custom. As
for Rawlings himself, he was in a fever. He wasn't such a cur that he
didn't wish to see Ranleigh victorious. But, then, victory meant even
greater popularity for Sturton, for Norman, and for Harper and other
members of the school, and Rawlings was intensely jealous of anyone's
popularity. He would have been king of Ranleigh could he have ordered
it. He would have been the highest and the noblest, and then, what a
life he would lead some of the fellows! Susanne, for instance--yes, he
hadn't forgotten Susanne's behaviour, and how he had worsted him at
their first meeting. Norman, too, for he hated Norman now that he no
longer could control him, and Clive Darrell. He sneered as he thought of
the latter, but the sneer became a frown. Rawlings was not quite sure
what his own particular feelings were as regards our hero. In his heart
of hearts he rather feared him. And the secret knowledge he had,
knowledge unsuspected by Clive and his mother, but vaguely suspected
and hinted at by their old gardener, gave him added cause for fear.
Still, Clive had nothing to gain by this match against Parkland, and
therefore Rawlings betook himself to the playing-field with as cheerful
a face as he could assume, arm in arm with Soper, one of his own kidney,
a slacker--one, in fact, of Ranleigh's bad bargains.
By two o'clock the field was crammed. Ranleigh boys wandered round and
round the touch line, cheering madly now and again when they met a crowd
of opponents. For Parkland was near at hand, and had sent every boy and
master to watch the historic contest. There was a terrific burst of
cheering when at length the Parkland eleven put in an appearance. Big,
hefty fellows, they came down to the field in a group, and, arrived at
the outskirts, Barlow, their Captain, a fine fellow, even when compared
with Sturton, took the practice ball and punted it.
"My word!" groaned Masters, watching it soar. "He's a kicker! If they're
all like him what chance do we stand?"
The question was answered within the minute. For having gone back and
forth, the ball was finally kicked again toward the entrance to the
field, for another group of players had suddenly put in an appearance.
It was Sturton and his eleven. The Captain caught the punted ball in
mid-air, stepped a couple of paces forward and sent it hurtling toward
the sky. A terrific cheer greeted the performance and the arrival of the
home team. Not that Ranleigh had stood still and silent when Barlow and
the Parkland team came on to the field. They gave them a lusty and noisy
greeting, while Parkland fellows, naturally enough, yelled at the top of
their voices. Ranleigh fellows were sportsmen ever, and could afford
such a welcome. Still, they had their own duties to perform, and they
let Sturton and his team know well, and Parkland fellows also, that
their undivided favour went in one direction.
And now the touch-line was black with figures. Already Barlow and his
men were on the field, while Sturton was just entering the touch-line.
Clive felt a little cold thrill run down his spine as he watched their
Captain. Sturton, his head a little in the air, a cool smile on his
handsome face, led the way direct towards Barlow, and shook that fine
fellow's hand eagerly. Then followed Robson, a little shorter than
Sturton, but nicely built, with particularly well-made legs and thighs.
The back of his head supported his football colours, while issuing from
beneath the cap was an abundance of fair hair. Robson also sported on
his upper lip a line of similar-coloured fluff, much to Susanne's envy.
There was Norman close behind, Harper, the big Australian, and Purdey
arm in arm, laughing heartily at some joke passing between them, Jenkins
Primus immediately behind them and the remainder of the eleven. There
was Bagshaw, too, dressed in a new suit of knicker-bockers, with a
muffler round his neck, a flag in one hand and whistle in his pocket.
"Hooray for Ranleigh!" Masters started the shouting. The boys took it up
all round the field with a vengeance, while the players arranged
themselves.
"Parkland! Parkland for ever!" the enemy retorted with tremendous
cheers, and then broke into the weirdest chant, something particular to
Parkland.
"Hear 'em singing, or groaning, which is it?" said Masters, with huge
disdain. "We'll make 'em sing, I can tell you fellows! Hullo, Tompkins,
where's those colours?"
His grammar was not always too correct, but his meaning was at any rate
evident. He pounced on Tompkins, tore his coat open and exposed his tie.
"A beastly red thing!" he shouted, seizing it and pulling at it till
half the unfortunate Tompkins' shirt was dragged about his neck. "Here,
what's the meaning of this? Treachery, eh?"
He eyed the delinquent fiercely. The wearing of this red tie was not
only an insult to Ranleigh on such a day, but it was clear disobedience
of orders. Had he not himself, the great Masters, commanded all the
small boys of One South to don the School colours?
"Just you hop right off to the school, kid," he commanded severely. "If
you ain't back here in double quick time with that tie, why--well,
you'll see. Just fancy a Ranleigh fellow sporting a red tie on a day
like this! Here, hook it, my beauty."
"But--but," expostulated the unhappy Tompkins--"but, Masters, I say----"
"Don't you say it then," declared that young gentleman fiercely. "Just
hook it, quick."
"But it's no good going to the school," said Tompkins, determined to
have a hearing. "You see----"
"I don't. Now, look here," began Masters, getting red in the face, for
it began to look as if Tompkins would defy him, and already Bert was
grinning that nasty satirical grin of his which angered other members of
the Old Firm besides Masters. "I'm not going to stand your gas. You----"
"I tell you it's no good," cried his victim stubbornly. "What's the good
of going to the school for a thing that isn't there?"
"Not there? Here, you're kidding."
"I'm not. Franklin's got the tie. He's wearing it now. He's got
something to say to you."
Tompkins was beginning to regain confidence. Masters was as red as any
beetroot. The mention of Franklin brought something unpleasant to his
memory. If he could he would have closed this discussion promptly. But
his victim meant him to have the whole story.
"You see, Masters," he said, "Franklin says he sold you the tie at the
beginning of the term. You were to pay ninepence for it. You never did.
Franklin says you gave him a fives ball, and that isn't anything like
worth the tie. So he's taken it. He wanted one, you see. He's wearing it
now. If you want me to have it you'd better ask him for it."
Masters growled. He recollected the transaction. "Why, that beast
Franklin has got the tie and fives ball as well," he shouted.
"And says you owe him ninepence still," grinned Tompkins, while Bert and
Clive and Hugh joined in the merriment.
"Owe him ninepence still!" their unfortunate comrade exclaimed, with
every sign of righteous indignation.
"Yes, for hire," grinned Tompkins. "And, of course, our bargain's off.
Franklin says he means to have his money, too, without waiting. He's
bigger than you, Masters. I'd pay it if I were in your shoes."
Whereat the worthy Tompkins took himself off, secretly grinning, while
the great Masters nursed his wrath and put up with the gibes and fun of
his fellows. Not that he was ragged for long, for the two teams were now
in position. Bagshaw brought the new match-ball and placed it in the
middle of the circle marked in the very centre of the ground. Then he
retired towards the touch-line, inspected his watch, pulled his whistle
from his pocket, nodded to each Captain in turn, and then blew a shrill
blast upon it.
They were off. Norman, playing centre-forward, kicked the ball across to
Sturton, next on his left. The latter dribbled it neatly past a couple
of the opponents and sent it on to Harper, on the outside left. The
latter, seeing a crowd converging on him, kicked it right across to
Bell, on the right of the field. But the enemy's half was down upon him
in a moment. The ball hurtled back towards the Ranleigh goal, was headed
by Jones Tertius, Ranleigh's half-back, so celebrated for his tactics,
was jogged on a little by Harper, and was then taken in hand by Riseau,
inside right, a quick and clever player. The watching crowds held their
breath as the leather was rushed up toward the Parkland posts. Riseau
passed neatly to his left, and well within the Parkland line Harper
centred. But there the rush ended. A huge fellow, one of the enemy's
backs, pounced upon the ball, lifted it a couple of yards high with a
neat movement of his foot, and punted it over the heads of the players.
"Down on it, Parkland. Now's your chance!" bellowed the visitors, while
Ranleigh fellows looked on in terror. The rush in the opposite direction
was, in fact, swifter even than had been the previous one undertaken by
Ranleigh fellows. Barlow shouted to his outside left. The man centred,
and at once the Captain of the visiting team sent a shot at the goal
which, but for Moon, would have succeeded. But Moon was a treasure.
Ranleigh chaps shouted his name till they were hoarse. To this day, and
for many a day to come, his prowess in goal will be remembered at the
school. For Moon was a huge fellow, an ox in size and weight and
muscular development. His arms were of the size of the average fellow's
legs, and when he hit out his blows were terrific. See him then waiting
for that shot between the posts of Ranleigh's goal. Not flurried, not at
all, for Moon was an old hand. Watching eagerly and keenly, balanced on
his toes, ready to spring to the rescue. And see what followed. Moon's
right fist swung out, clad in its leather glove. Even Sturton could not
have kicked the ball harder. Moon's terrific blow sent it soaring away
over the heads of the players to the centre of the field, thus saving
the goal for Ranleigh. Ah! They know at Ranleigh how to encourage a man,
how to show their approval. The groan which went up from the lips of the
visitors, their grumbles at their want of fortune, were drowned out of
hearing by the shrill yells of Ranleigh boys, by their mad cheers and
cries of delight. It was magnificent! Clive felt quite overcome. Masters
declared that a testimonial must be given to Moon to mark this noble
occasion, and would, in fact, have commenced a collection at once had
not Susanne, knowing him somewhat thoroughly, declined to part with even
a penny.
But the ball was being dealt with actively again. Ranleigh swept it well
out of their own ground and sent it over the touch-line within easy
distance of the enemy's goal. A moment later "Hands" was given against
the home team, while the rush which followed the free kick carried the
ball within the circle directly in front of Ranleigh goal. Then Moon
pounced upon the leather, slipped, and fell in the mire. The greasy ball
squeezed out of his hands as a pip shoots from an orange, there was
frantic kicking for some few seconds, and then, to the bellows of the
Parkland boys and groans of the Ranleigh fellows, it was kicked between
the posts by Barlow.
Clive looked desperately at his fellows. "One to Parkland," he said.
"They're awful hot. Think we'll be able to stop 'em?"
Susanne nodded his head cheerily. He was feeling just as anxious as the
rest. But cheerfulness was half the battle with the Frenchman.
"You wait," he said, chewing a pencil. If he had been away from the
school and its surroundings he would have had a cigarette between his
lips. For the weed, he often asserted, consoled him wonderfully. "You
wait till after half. Sturton'll give 'em socks then. Our chaps haven't
started."
It was evident enough that Ranleigh had on this occasion been taken by
surprise. The sudden rush of the enemy and the unfortunate slip of Moon
had resulted in their undoing. But Sturton showed no signs of dismay as
he led the men back into their own ground.
"Go steady," he whispered to them. "No rushing after this. Of course,
push 'em for all you know, but keep well in hand. I'm going to stake
everything on the last half of the game. By then they'll be cooked if
they're not as fit as fiddles."
When at length Bagshaw's whistle went for half-time, and slices of lemon
were brought out to the players, the score stood at three to one,
Ranleigh having secured but a single goal.
"But you'll run up the score when we get going again," declared Bagshaw
hopefully, as he chatted with the men during the interval. "I'll swear
their chaps aren't as fit as we are. They've been going hammer and tongs
all the while, and have only two more goals than we have. You chaps must
push them hard. Make the running from the very commencement."
If Bagshaw was hopeful, others of Ranleigh School were not. There was
now an air of depression about the fellows. The cheering of late had
hardly been so loud or so enthusiastic. Clive wrapped his overcoat a
little closer round him, for he felt positively chilly, while even
Susanne looked less cheerful. As for Masters, it was a bitter day. He
had hoped to be able to look down on Parkland fellows. If he were to be
hoarse for a week after, it would have been fine to shout them down, to
answer cheer for cheer. And now it looked as if they would do all the
cheering. Also, to add to his depression, Franklin found him at
half-time and became disgustingly insistent.
"You'll just jolly well pay up that ninepence or get kicked, young
Masters," he said. "It's bad enough to have to lose a match like this,
for I suppose that that's what's going to happen. I ain't going to lose
money as well."
"But--but I swapped a fives ball," pleaded Masters feebly. "That's worth
sixpence."
"Most are; yours wasn't. It went to pieces first game; it was a
rotter," declared Franklin harshly. "None of your bunkum. That ninepence
or a kicking."
It was no wonder that Masters welcomed the renewal of the game; though,
to be sure, he was now silent. But in a little while he had almost
regained his cheerfulness. For Sturton and his men were making the pace.
Instead of playing on the defensive, they were carrying the war into the
enemy's country. Within five minutes, in fact, they had scored a goal,
whereat Ranleigh applauded vociferously.
"Just watch them closely, you fellows," Barlow cautioned his Parkland
eleven, as they went back into their own ground for the kick off. "That
was simply a rush. We got our first from them in the same way. Hold
together and keep the ball always in their half."
"Well done," commented Sturton. "Don't let 'em rest. We're fit enough to
keep at it hard till the whistle goes. So push 'em, boys."
How magnificently Moon used his fists! The shots which the Parkland team
made at the home goal might easily have succeeded. But Moon made light
of them. He always seemed to be in the right place and at the very right
moment, while his ponderous blows sent the ball flying far from the
goal. But if he had his work to do, so also had the keeper of the
Parkland goal. Within ten minutes of the recommencement of play, Harper
sent in a shot which struck one of the posts with a thud and scared the
visitors. It brought a howl of delight and encouragement from the
Ranleigh fellows.
"Pitch 'em in hard," Clive found himself shouting frantically. "Bravo,
Sturton! Well done, Norman! Hooray for Ranleigh!"
But time went on swiftly. In spite of every effort, and in spite also of
the almost obvious fact that Parkland men were hard pressed and none too
fit, Sturton and his team had not yet equalled the score of the enemy.
Ranleigh's score still stood at two, against three by Parkland, and time
was terribly short.
"Play up, Ranleigh!" screamed the boys. "Stick to it, Parkland!" shouted
the visitors. Sturton looked about him coolly, though there was anxiety
in his eyes. He called to his men curtly. "Now, Ranleigh," he said.
"Time's almost up. Let's do something."
They backed him up manfully. That brilliant little half who had nursed
his forwards assiduously all through the game got the ball when all
alone and dribbled it swiftly toward Parkland's goal. Ranleigh forwards
were then well in advance, and a well-placed kick sent the leather
neatly amongst them. Sturton passed with the rapidity of lightning to
Harper, at the same time stepping aside to evade the frantic rush of
one of the visitors' backs. Harper rushed the ball still closer to the
goal, passed it to his nearest man, had it sent back within the instant
and lost it. But that little half was there to support. He jogged the
leather upward. A Parkland man got in a punt, sending the ball to a
great height. There the wind caught it. Sturton, watching its flight,
rushed in to meet its fall. A man charged him. He slid aside, and just
in the nick of time headed the leather. A roar of cheering told him that
he had been successful.
"A drawn game. Well, that's better than last time, when it was six to
two," said Clive. "But it's rotten luck. Our chaps are heaps the better.
Play up, you fellows!" he yelled, almost angrily.
And Ranleigh did play up. The eleven had seen Bagshaw consulting his
watch with some anxiety and knew that there could now be but a couple of
minutes left in which to finish the game. Parkland fellows knew it also,
and were as keen to win as Ranleigh. Off went the ball again. Visitors
and Ranleighan spectators of the game kept up a continuous roar, which
might have been heard right down in the village. Scarves were waved
aloft. Fellows tore up and down the field at the back of the spectators.
Even masters were stirred out of their usual calm. But it seemed to no
purpose. The ball oscillated round about the centre of the field for
what seemed ages. Then the visiting team took it triumphantly along with
them, and sent a long shot at Ranleigh goal which plumped straight for
the centre.
"Done!" groaned Clive, hardly daring to look.
"Good old Moon!" shouted Susanne and Hugh together. "Moon's done for
'em. He's sent the ball back to our fellows."
It was an old trick of the Ranleigh goalkeeper. It may be doubted
whether there are many goalkeepers who could put up a similar
performance, for, as we have said, the Goliath in Ranleigh goal could
strike with his fists harder almost than the average fellow could kick.
In any case, he gave the ball a terrific buffet, sending it spinning
back to the Ranleigh forwards. It was then that the fellows stood on
their toes in their anxiety. Harper had the leather and muffed it.
Sturton somehow managed to gain possession. It shot across to the far
left a moment later, was rushed forward by the outside left, dribbled
across to the inside man, and then sent flying between the Parkland
posts. Perhaps ten seconds later, while yells of delight still filled
the air, the whistle of the referee was heard blowing.
"Look here, Franklin," said Masters, meeting him some few minutes later.
"Blow those colours. I don't care whether I owe you ninepence or nine
bob. Come to the tuck for a blow-out. Ranleigh's won, my boy. A chap
can't afford to quarrel about mere pennies on such a glorious occasion."
They chaired Sturton from the field. A pack of juniors endeavoured to do
the same for Moon, but broke down under the ponderous burden. Even
Parkland fellows cheered, for they were sportsmen.
"You played us a fine game and beat us handsomely," said Barlow, taking
Sturton's proffered hand with a smile of friendship. "I hope you chaps
will give us a return. My word, the improvement is an eye-opener!"
"And due to the new method," said the Head of Ranleigh that evening,
when Sturton and the eleven took dinner with him. "This historic match
is an answer to all critics. The School has much to thank our Captain
for. The improvement in tone and fitness is wonderful."
Well, the day was done, the battle was fought and won, and Ranleigh was
weary of triumph and happiness.
"Good night," whispered Susanne to Clive.
"Good night," came the answer. "Er--I say, Susanne."
"Eh?"
"There's one thing."
"Heaps," was the sleepy response.
"Yes, but I'm serious. I'm going to stick to footer till I get into the
team. Hear that?"
"Mighty interesting," yawned Susanne. "Wake me up when you've got there,
and, by the way, don't forget to speak when you are Captain."
Clive grew red with vexation. For he was serious, very serious indeed.
In his own secret mind he registered that night a resolve to grow up as
fine a fellow as Sturton, to fight his way into the football eleven,
and--the biggest resolve of all--to even ascend to the glories of
Captain of Ranleigh.
"I'll do it," he mumbled as he fell asleep.