"laid low"; he was waiting. Then his eyes flashed, and his
lithe, active figure flashed up the field sending the ball into the
posts like a shot from a gun, thus scoring the first and only goal. He
had then fainted away; and a beautiful girl had exclaimed "A-a-a-a-a-h,"
and had hurried to him with a smelling-bottle and much sympathy. When he
recovered, he sat up and made an apology for stopping the game and was
loudly cheered by both teams. This was the model which Tim had to keep
in his mind's eye. In one or two ways he succeeded, and in others he
failed--failed dismally.

When Tim came to ask questions about football at Thetford Grammar School
he found it was quite another thing. In the first place the boys all
spoke to him in that specially offensive you're-only-a-little-kid sort
of way. They also took it for granted that he had never seen a football
in his life. He found it impossible to refuse (with a careless laugh) to
say whether he had ever kicked a ball before. He was told that he would
have to play in the next school practice match, and that if he could
kick a ball, he might be allowed to play in a _real_ match one fine day.
When the first practice game commenced, Tim remembered that an
enthusiastic crowd had run by Victor's side, shouting wildly: "Hurrah!
hurrah for Victor." It is true that a few of the smaller boys shouted at
him. But what they shouted was: "Put a bit of life into it, old
Carrots!" and "Go it, Rufus! You'll never score a goal if you kick the
ball in that mother-may-I-have-an-orange style." During the first part
of the game Tim was rather quiet--he was waiting for a golden
opportunity, just as Victor had waited. It came when the forwards were
in full movement, and the ball came travelling neatly along the line on
the right wing. It finally came to rest at Tim's feet, and he, avoiding
a man who darted at him, raced forward a few yards. Then something,
which came through the air like a Whitehead Torpedo, sent him spinning
backwards on the grass. Amidst roars of laughter from the other fellows,
the Whitehead Torpedo, (who was a boy and smaller than Tim), spun round,
ran the ball a few dozen yards, and sent it soaring away with a vent
kick straight for the goal. There was a moment of silence. The ball
pitched fair and square on the top bar, and then trickled gently between
the posts.

A howl of joy went up from the small fry who had been "ragging" Tim all
the time.

Tim sat up and looked abou