to
the sides, where a try at goal, if obtained, will be less dangerous than
in front. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves
till now, will lead the charges.

"Are you ready?" "Yes." And away comes the ball, kicked high in the air,
to give the School time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here
they are amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you Schoolhouse boys,
and charge them home. Now is the time to show what mettle is in you;
and there shall be a warm seat by the hall fire, and honour, and lots of
bottled beer to-night for him who does his duty in the next half-hour.
And they are well met. Again and again the cloud of their players-up
gathers before our goal, and comes threatening on, and Warner or Hedge,
with young Brooke and the relics of the bull-dogs, break through
and carry the ball back; and old Brooke ranges the field like Job's
war-horse. The thickest scrummage parts asunder before his rush, like
the waves before a clipper's bows; his cheery voice rings out over the
field, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it
rolls dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men
have seized it and sent it away towards the sides with the unerring
drop-kick. This is worth living for--the whole sum of school-boy
existence gathered up into one straining, struggling half-hour, a
half-hour worth a year of common life.

The quarter to five has struck, and the play slackens for a minute
before goal; but there is Crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in
behind our goal, on the island side, where our quarters are weakest. Is
there no one to meet him? Yes; look at little East! The ball is just at
equal distances between the two, and they rush together, the young man
of seventeen and the boy of twelve, and kick it at the same moment. Crew
passes on without a stagger; East is hurled forward by the shock, and
plunges on his shoulder, as if he would bury himself in the ground;
but the ball rises straight into the air, and falls behind Crew's back,
while the "bravoes" of the School-house attest the pluckiest charge of
all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame and half stunned,
and he hobbles back into goal, conscious of having played the man.

And now the last minutes are come, and the School gather for their last
rush, every boy of the hundred and twenty who has a run left in him.
Reckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level
big-side