ing cover. Mr. Blinkhorn,
who had more conscientious views of his office, charged about
vigorously, performing all kinds of wonders with the ball, though
evidently more from a sense of duty than with any idea of enjoyment.

Tipping occasionally took the trouble to oppose him, but as a concession
merely, and with a parade of being under no necessity to do so; and
these two, with a very small following of enthusiasts on either side,
waged a private and confidential kind of warfare in different parts of
the field, while the others made no pretence of playing for the present,
but strolled about in knots, exchanging and bartering the treasures
valuable in the sight of schoolboys, and gossiping generally.

As for Paul, he did not clearly understand what "playing up" might mean.
He had not indulged in football since he was a genuine boy, and then
only in a rudimentary and primitive form, and without any particular
fondness for the exercise. But being now, in spirit at all events, a
precise elderly person, with a decided notion of taking care of himself,
he was resolved that not even Tipping should compel him to trust his
person within range of that dirty brown globe, which whistled past his
ear or seemed spinning towards his stomach with such a hideous
suggestion of a cannon-ball about it.

All the ghastly instances, too, of accidents to life and limb in the
football field came unpleasantly into his memory, and he saw the
inadvisability of mingling with the crowd and allowing himself to be
kicked violently on the shins.

So he trotted industriously about at a safe distance in order to allay
suspicion, while waiting for a good opportunity to put his scheme of
escape into execution.

At last he could wait no longer, for the fearful thought occurred to
him, that if he remained there much longer, the Doctor--who, as he knew
from Dick, always came to superintend, if not to share the sports of his
pupils--might make his appearance, and then his chance would be lost for
the present, for he knew too well that he should never find courage to
ask permission from _him_.

With a beating heart he went up to Mr. Tinkler, who was still on the
fence with his novel, and asked as humbly as he could bring himself to
do:

"If you please, sir, will you allow me to go home? I'm--I'm not feeling
at all well."

"Not well! What's the matter with you?" said Mr. Tinkler, without
looking up.

Paul had not prepared himself for details, and the