fallen figures and the referee. At last
they parted. Ashminster remained on their line and Armstrong, the
Elfrey scrum-half, was bringing out the ball. Raikes had fallen over
the line in a central position. The school gave vent to a shout that
stirred Mr Foskett to quote Homer on the wounded Ares. Llewelyn of
course took the kick. A safe thing, one said. But now, incredibly, he
failed. The ball trickled feebly along the ground and a vague moan
passed down the ranks.

Six all and five minutes to go. Play settled down near half-way. Both
teams were fighting like devils: and still there were found men to go
down to the rushes. Then the Ashminster back miskicked in an effort to
find touch. Llewelyn had made a mark. It was far off, but he was
going to have a shot at goal. As the teams separated and Llewelyn
balanced the ball in the half-back's hands, there was silence. Only
here and there a muttered voice would be heard as someone strove to
relieve the strain by objurgation.

"Callingham, you blighter, don't barge," or: "After you with my feet,
Ginger," or: "Hack that stinker Murray, he's oiled up two places."

Then, as Llewelyn took his run and the enemy charged, there was no
sound. The ball went soaring up. He had done it? The mist was
ubiquitously damned. Then the touch-judges behind the goals raised
their flags, a signal for the greatest roar of all. The match was
over, gloriously over. It only remained to charge headlong to the
tuck-shop and fight the whole game over again with ham and eggs or the
succulent cho-hone.

These were moments.

Football too brought other, more directly personal, moments. There was
the occasion when Moore and Spots came down to watch the juniors of
Berney's and Martin scored a try beneath their awful gaze. Surely it
was the very essence of triumph to see the enemy scowling on their
goal-line while Berney's sauntered away with the ball, and to know that
he and he alone was responsible for this cleavage of the hosts. Martin
walked with all the tremendous humility of glowing pride. It was the
first try he had ever scored, and Moore and Spots had seen it.

That evening Moore approached him after prayers.

"Hullo, Leigh," he said. "You scored this afternoon, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Martin, making a desperate effort to conceal his
satisfaction.

"Well," answered Moore deliberately, "you hadn't any business to.
You're a forward and it isn't your job to cut the s