"Foot
and eye opposed
In dubious strife." -
Scott.
"And so here's Rugby,
sir, at last, and you'll
be in plenty of time for
dinner at the School-house,
as I telled you," said
the old guard, pulling
his horn out of its case
and tootle-tooing away,
while the coachman shook
up his horses, and carried
them along the side of
the school close, round
Dead-man's corner, past
the school-gates, and down
the High Street to the
Spread Eagle, the wheelers
in a spanking trot, and
leaders cantering, in a
style which would not have
disgraced "Cherry
Bob," "ramping,
stamping, tearing, swearing
Billy Harwood," or
any other of the old coaching
heroes.
Tom's heart beat quick
as he passed the great
schoolfield or close, with
its noble elms, in which
several games at football
were going on, and tried
to take in at once the
long line of gray buildings,
beginning with the chapel,
and ending with the School-house,
the residence of the head-master,
where the great flag was
lazily waving from the
highest round tower. And
he began already to be
proud of being a Rugby
boy, as he passed the schoolgates,
with the oriel window above,
and saw the boys standing
there, looking as if the
town belonged to them,
and nodding in a familiar
manner to the coachman,
as if any one of them would
be quite equal to getting
on the box, and working
the team down street as
well as he.
One of
the young heroes, however,
ran out from the
rest, and scrambled up
behind; where, having righted
himself, and nodded to
the guard, with "How
do, Jem?" he turned
short round to Tom, and
after looking him over
for a minute, began, -
"I
say, you fellow, is your
name Brown?"
"Yes," said
Tom, in considerable astonishment,
glad, however, to have
lighted on some one already
who seemed to know him.
"Ah,
I thought so. You know
my old aunt, Miss
East. She lives somewhere
down your way in Berkshire.
She wrote to me that you
were coming to-day, and
asked me to give you a
lift."
Tom was somewhat inclined
to resent the patronizing
air of his new friend,
a boy of just about his
own height and age, but
gifted with the most transcendent
coolness and assurance,
which Tom felt to be aggravating
and hard to bear, but couldn't
for the life of him help
admiring and envying -
especially when young my
lord begins hectoring two
or three long loafing fellows,
half porter, half stableman,
with a strong touch of
the blackguard, and in
the end arranges with one
of them, nicknamed Cooey,
to carry Tom's luggage
up to the School-house
for sixpence.
"And hark 'ee, Cooey;
it must be up in ten minutes,
or no more jobs from me.
Come along, Brown." And
away swaggers the young
potentate, with his hands
in his pockets, and Tom
at his side.
"All right, sir," says
Cooey, touching his hat,
with a leer and a wink
at his companions.
"Hullo though," says
East, pulling up, and taking
another look at Tom; "this'll
never do. Haven't you got
a hat? We never wear caps
here. Only the louts wear
caps. Bless you, if you
were to go into the quadrangle
with that thing on, I don't
know what'd happen." The
very idea was quite beyond
young Master East, and
he looked unutterable things.
Tom thought his cap a
very knowing affair, but
confessed that he had a
hat in his hat-box; which
was accordingly at once
extracted from the hind-boot,
and Tom equipped in his
go-to- meeting roof, as
his new friend called it.
But this didn't quite suit
his fastidious taste in
another minute, being too
shiny; so, as they walk
up the town, they dive
into Nixon's the hatter's,
and Tom is arrayed, to
his utter astonishment,
and without paying for
it, in a regulation cat-skin
at seven-and- sixpence,
Nixon undertaking to send
the best hat up to the
matron's room, School-house,
in half an hour.
"You can send in
a note for a tile on Monday,
and make it all right,
you know," said Mentor; "we're
allowed two seven-and-
sixers a half, besides
what we bring from home."
Tom by this time began
to be conscious of his
new social position and
dignities, and to luxuriate
in the realized ambition
of being a public school-boy
at last, with a vested
right of spoiling two seven-and-sixers
in half a year.
"You see," said
his friend, as they strolled
up towards the school-gates,
in explanation of his conduct, "a
great deal depends on how
a fellow cuts up at first.
If he's got nothing odd
about him, and answers
straightforward, and holds
his head up, he gets on.
Now, you'll do very well
as to rig, all but that
cap. You see I'm doing
the handsome thing by you,
because my father knows
yours; besides, I want
to please the old lady.
She gave me half a sov.
this half, and perhaps'll
double it next, if I keep
in her good books."
There's nothing for candour
like a lower-school boy,
and East was a genuine
specimen - frank, hearty,
and good-natured, well-
satisfied with himself
and his position, and choke-full
of life and spirits, and
all the Rugby prejudices
and traditions which he
had been able to get together
in the long course of one
half- year during which
he had been at the School-house.
And Tom, notwithstanding
his bumptiousness, felt
friends with him at once,
and began sucking in all
his ways and prejudices,
as fast as he could understand
them.
East was
great in the character
of cicerone.
He carried Tom through
the great gates, where
were only two or three
boys. These satisfied themselves
with the stock questions, "You
fellow, what's your name?
Where do you come from?
How old are you? Where
do you board?" and, "What
form are you in?" And
so they passed on through
the quadrangle and a small
courtyard, upon which looked
down a lot of little windows
(belonging, as his guide
informed him, to some of
the School-house studies),
into the matron's room,
where East introduced Tom
to that dignitary; made
him give up the key of
his trunk, that the matron
might unpack his linen,
and told the story of the
hat and of his own presence
of mind: upon the relation
whereof the matron laughingly
scolded him for the coolest
new boy in the house; and
East, indignant at the
accusation of newness,
marched Tom off into the
quadrangle, and began showing
him the schools, and examining
him as to his literary
attainments; the result
of which was a prophecy
that they would be in the
same form, and could do
their lessons together.
"And
now come in and see my
study - we shall
have just time before dinner;
and afterwards, before
calling over, we'll do
the close."
Tom followed his guide
through the School-house
hall, which opens into
the quadrangle. It is a
great room, thirty feet
long and eighteen high,
or thereabouts, with two
great tables running the
whole length, and two large
fireplaces at the side,
with blazing fires in them,
at one of which some dozen
boys were standing and
lounging, some of whom
shouted to East to stop;
but he shot through with
his convoy, and landed
him in the long, dark passages,
with a large fire at the
end of each, upon which
the studies opened. Into
one of these, in the bottom
passage, East bolted with
our hero, slamming and
bolting the door behind
them, in case of pursuit
from the hall, and Tom
was for the first time
in a Rugby boy's citadel.
He hadn't been prepared
for separate studies, and
was not a little astonished
and delighted with the
palace in question.
It wasn't very large,
certainly, being about
six feet long by four broad.
It couldn't be called light,
as there were bars and
a grating to the window;
which little precautions
were necessary in the studies
on the ground-floor looking
out into the close, to
prevent the exit of small
boys after locking up,
and the entrance of contraband
articles. But it was uncommonly
comfortable to look at,
Tom thought. The space
under the window at the
farther end was occupied
by a square table covered
with a reasonably clean
and whole red and blue
check tablecloth; a hard-seated
sofa covered with red stuff
occupied one side, running
up to the end, and making
a seat for one, or by sitting
close, for two, at the
table and a good stout
wooden chair afforded a
seat to another boy, so
that three could sit and
work together. The walls
were wainscoted half-way
up, the wainscot being
covered with green baize,
the remainder with a bright-
patterned paper, on which
hung three or four prints
of dogs' heads; Grimaldi
winning the Aylesbury steeple-chase;
Amy Robsart, the reigning
Waverley beauty of the
day; and Tom Crib, in a
posture of defence, which
did no credit to the science
of that hero, if truly
represented. Over the door
were a row of hat-pegs,
and on each side bookcases
with cupboards at the bottom,
shelves and cupboards being
filled indiscriminately
with school-books, a cup
or two, a mouse-trap and
candlesticks, leather straps,
a fustian bag, and some
curious-looking articles
which puzzled Tom not a
little, until his friend
explained that they were
climbing-irons, and showed
their use. A cricket-bat
and small fishing-rod stood
up in one corner.
This was the residence
of East and another boy
in the same form, and had
more interest for Tom than
Windsor Castle, or any
other residence in the
British Isles. For was
he not about to become
the joint owner of a similar
home, the first place he
could call his own? One's
own! What a charm there
is in the words! How long
it takes boy and man to
find out their worth! How
fast most of us hold on
to them - faster and more
jealously, the nearer we
are to that general home
into which we can take
nothing, but must go naked
as we came into the world!
When shall we learn that
he who multiplieth possessions
multiplieth troubles, and
that the one single use
of things which we call
our own is that they may
be his who hath need of
them?
"And shall I have
a study like this too?" said
Tom.
"Yes,
of course; you'll be
chummed with
some fellow on Monday,
and you can sit here till
then."
"What
nice places!"
"They're well enough," answered
East, patronizingly, "only
uncommon cold at nights
sometimes. Gower - that's
my chum - and I make a
fire with paper on the
floor after supper generally,
only that makes it so smoky."
"But there's a big
fire out in the passage," said
Tom.
"Precious little
we get out of that, though," said
East. "Jones the prepostor
has the study at the fire
end, and he has rigged
up an iron rod and green
baize curtain across the
passage, which he draws
at night, and sits there
with his door open; so
he gets all the fire, and
hears if we come out of
our studies after eight,
or make a noise. However,
he's taken to sitting in
the fifth-form room lately,
so we do get a bit of fire
now sometimes; only to
keep a sharp lookout that
he don't catch you behind
his curtain when he comes
down - that's all."
A quarter
past one now struck,
and the bell began
tolling for dinner; so
they went into the hall
and took their places,
Tom at the very bottom
of the second table, next
to the prepostor (who sat
at the end to keep order
there), and East a few
paces higher. And now Tom
for the first time saw
his future school- fellows
in a body. In they came,
some hot and ruddy from
football or long walks,
some pale and chilly from
hard reading in their studies,
some from loitering over
the fire at the pastrycook's,
dainty mortals, bringing
with them pickles and saucebottles
to help them with their
dinners. And a great big-
bearded man, whom Tom took
for a master, began calling
over the names, while the
great joints were being
rapidly carved on the third
table in the corner by
the old verger and the
housekeeper. Tom's turn
came last, and meanwhile
he was all eyes, looking
first with awe at the great
man, who sat close to him,
and was helped first, and
who read a hard-looking
book all the time he was
eating; and when he got
up and walked off to the
fire, at the small boys
round him, some of whom
were reading, and the rest
talking in whispers to
one another, or stealing
one another's bread, or
shooting pellets, or digging
their forks through the
tablecloth. However, notwithstanding
his curiosity, he managed
to make a capital dinner
by the time the big man
called "Stand up!" and
said grace.
As soon as dinner was
over, and Tom had been
questioned by such of his
neighbours as were curious
as to his birth, parentage,
education, and other like
matters, East, who evidently
enjoyed his new dignity
of patron and mentor, proposed
having a look at the close,
which Tom, athirst for
knowledge, gladly assented
to; and they went out through
the quadrangle and past
the big fives court, into
the great playground.
"That's the chapel,
you see," said East; "and
there, just behind it,
is the place for fights.
You see it's most out of
the way of the masters,
who all live on the other
side, and don't come by
here after first lesson
or callings-over. That's
when the fights come off.
And all this part where
we are is the little- side
ground, right up to the
trees; and on the other
side of the trees is the
big-side ground, where
the great matches are played.
And there's the island
in the farthest corner;
you'll know that well enough
next half, when there's
island fagging. I say,
it's horrid cold; let's
have a run across." And
away went East, Tom close
behind him. East was evidently
putting his best foot foremost;
and Tom, who was mighty
proud of his running, and
not a little anxious to
show his friend that, although
a new boy, he was no milksop,
laid himself down to work
in his very best style.
Right across the close
they went, each doing all
he knew, and there wasn't
a yard between them when
they pulled up at the island
moat.
"I say," said
East, as soon as he got
his wind, looking with
much increased respect
at Tom, "you ain't
a bad scud, not by no means.
Well, I'm as warm as a
toast now."
"But why do you wear
white trousers in November?" said
Tom. He had been struck
by this peculiarity in
the costume of almost all
the School-house boys.
"Why,
bless us, don't you know?
No; I forgot.
Why, to-day's the School-house
match. Our house plays
the whole of the School
at football. And we all
wear white trousers, to
show 'em we don't care
for hacks. You're in luck
to come to-day. You just
will see a match; and Brooke's
going to let me play in
quarters. That's more than
he'll do for any other
lower-school boy, except
James, and he's fourteen."
"Who's
Brooke?"
"Why,
that big fellow who called
over at dinner,
to be sure. He's cock of
the school, and head of
the School-house side,
and the best kick and charger
in Rugby."
"Oh,
but do show me where
they play. And
tell me about it. I love
football so, and have played
all my life. Won't Brooke
let me play?"
"Not he," said
East, with some indignation. "Why,
you don't know the rules;
you'll be a month learning
them. And then it's no
joke playing-up in a match,
I can tell you - quite
another thing from your
private school games. Why,
there's been two collar-bones
broken this half, and a
dozen fellows lamed. And
last year a fellow had
his leg broken."
Tom listened with the
profoundest respect to
this chapter of accidents,
and followed East across
the level ground till they
came to a sort of gigantic
gallows of two poles, eighteen
feet high, fixed upright
in the ground some fourteen
feet apart, with a cross-bar
running from one to the
other at the height of
ten feet or thereabouts.
"This is one of the
goals," said East, "and
you see the other, across
there, right opposite,
under the Doctor's wall.
Well, the match is for
the best of three goals;
whichever side kicks two
goals wins: and it won't
do, you see, just to kick
the ball through these
posts - it must go over
the cross-bar; any height'll
do, so long as it's between
the posts. You'll have
to stay in goal to touch
the ball when it rolls
behind the posts, because
if the other side touch
it they have a try at goal.
Then we fellows in quarters,
we play just about in front
of goal here, and have
to turn the ball and kick
it back before the big
fellows on the other side
can follow it up. And in
front of us all the big
fellows play, and that's
where the scrummages are
mostly."
Tom's
respect increased as
he struggled to make
out his friend's technicalities,
and the other set to work
to explain the mysteries
of "off your side," "drop-kicks," "punts," "places," and
the other intricacies of
the great science of football.
"But how do you keep
the ball between the goals?" said
he; "I can't see why
it mightn't go right down
to the chapel."
"Why; that's out
of play," answered
East. "You see this
gravel- walk running down
all along this side of
the playing-ground, and
the line of elms opposite
on the other? Well, they're
the bounds. As soon as
the ball gets past them,
it's in touch, and out
of play. And then whoever
first touches it has to
knock it straight out amongst
the players-up, who make
two lines with a space
between them, every fellow
going on his own side.
Ain't there just fine scrummages
then! And the three trees
you see there which come
out into the play, that's
a tremendous place when
the ball hangs there, for
you get thrown against
the trees, and that's worse
than any hack."
Tom wondered within himself,
as they strolled back again
towards the fives court,
whether the matches were
really such break-neck
affairs as East represented,
and whether, if they were,
he should ever get to like
them and play up well,
He hadn't
long to wonder, however,
for next minute
East cried out, "Hurrah!
here's the punt-about;
come along and try your
hand at a kick." The
punt-about is the practice-ball,
which is just brought out
and kicked about anyhow
from one boy to another
before callings-over and
dinner, and at other odd
times. They joined the
boys who had brought it
out, all small School-house
fellows, friends of East;
and Tom had the pleasure
of trying his skill, and
performed very creditably,
after first driving his
foot three inches into
the ground, and then nearly
kicking his leg into the
air, in vigorous efforts
to accomplish a drop-kick
after the manner of East.
Presently more boys and
bigger came out, and boys
from other houses on their
way to calling-over, and
more balls were sent for.
The crowd thickened as
three o'clock approached;
and when the hour struck,
one hundred and fifty boys
were hard at work. Then
the balls were held, the
master of the week came
down in cap and gown to
calling-over, and the whole
school of three hundred
boys swept into the big
school to answer to their
names.
"I may come in, mayn't
I?" said Tom, catching
East by the arm, and longing
to feel one of them.
"Yes, come along;
nobody'll say anything.
You won't be so eager to
get into calling-over after
a month," replied
his friend; and they marched
into the big school together,
and up to the farther end,
where that illustrious
form, the lower fourth,
which had the honour of
East's patronage for the
time being, stood.
The master
mounted into the high
desk by the door,
and one of the prepostors
of the week stood by him
on the steps, the other
three marching up and down
the middle of the school
with their canes, calling
out, "Silence, silence!" The
sixth form stood close
by the door on the left,
some thirty in number,
mostly great big grown
men, as Tom thought, surveying
them from a distance with
awe; the fifth form behind
them, twice their number,
and not quite so big. These
on the left; and on the
right the lower fifth,
shell, and all the junior
forms in order; while up
the middle marched the
three prepostors.
Then the
prepostor who stands
by the master calls
out the names, beginning
with the sixth form; and
as he calls each boy answers "here" to
his name, and walks out.
Some of the sixth stop
at the door to turn the
whole string of boys into
the close. It is a great
match-day, and every boy
in the school, will he,
nill he, must be there.
The rest of the sixth go
forwards into the close,
to see that no one escapes
by any of the side gates.
To-day,
however, being the School-house
match,
none of the School-house
prepostors stay by the
door to watch for truants
of their side; there is
carte blanche to the School-house
fags to go where they like. "They
trust to our honour," as
East proudly informs Tom; "they
know very well that no
School-house boy would
cut the match. If he did,
we'd very soon cut him,
I can tell you."
The master of the week
being short-sighted, and
the prepostors of the week
small and not well up to
their work, the lower-
school boys employ the
ten minutes which elapse
before their names are
called in pelting one another
vigorously with acorns,
which fly about in all
directions. The small prepostors
dash in every now and then,
and generally chastise
some quiet, timid boy who
is equally afraid of acorns
and canes, while the principal
performers get dexterously
out of the way. And so
calling-over rolls on somehow,
much like the big world,
punishments lighting on
wrong shoulders, and matters
going generally in a queer,
cross-grained way, but
the end coming somehow,
which is, after all, the
great point. And now the
master of the week has
finished, and locked up
the big school; and the
prepostors of the week
come out, sweeping the
last remnant of the school
fags, who had been loafing
about the corners by the
fives court, in hopes of
a chance of bolting, before
them into the close.
"Hold the punt-about!" "To
the goals!" are the
cries; and all stray balls
are impounded by the authorities,
and the whole mass of boys
moves up towards the two
goals, dividing as they
go into three bodies. That
little band on the left,
consisting of from fifteen
to twenty boys, Tom amongst
them, who are making for
the goal under the School-house
wall, are the School-house
boys who are not to play
up, and have to stay in
goal. The larger body moving
to the island goal are
the School boys in a like
predicament. The great
mass in the middle are
the players-up, both sides
mingled together; they
are hanging their jackets
(and all who mean real
work), their hats, waistcoats,
neck- handkerchiefs, and
braces, on the railings
round the small trees;
and there they go by twos
and threes up to their
respective grounds. There
is none of the colour and
tastiness of get-up, you
will perceive, which lends
such a life to the present
game at Rugby, making the
dullest and worst-fought
match a pretty sight. Now
each house has its own
uniform of cap and jersey,
of some lively colour;
but at the time we are
speaking of plush caps
have not yet come in, or
uniforms of any sort, except
the School-house white
trousers, which are abominably
cold to-day. Let us get
to work, bare-headed, and
girded with our plain leather
straps. But we mean business,
gentlemen.
And now
that the two sides have
fairly sundered, and
each occupies its own ground,
and we get a good look
at them, what absurdity
is this? You don't mean
to say that those fifty
or sixty boys in white
trousers, many of them
quite small, are going
to play that huge mass
opposite? Indeed I do,
gentlemen. They're going
to try, at any rate, and
won't make such a bad fight
of it either, mark my word;
for hasn't old Brooke won
the toss, with his lucky
halfpenny, and got choice
of goals and kick-off?
The new ball you may see
lie there quite by itself,
in the middle, pointing
towards the School or island
goal; in another minute
it will be well on its
way there. Use that minute
in remarking how the Schoolhouse
side is drilled. You will
see, in the first place,
that the sixth-form boy,
who has the charge of goal,
has spread his force (the
goalkeepers) so as to occupy
the whole space behind
the goal-posts, at distances
of about five yards apart.
A safe and well-kept goal
is the foundation of all
good play. Old Brooke is
talking to the captain
of quarters, and now he
moves away. See how that
youngster spreads his men
(the light brigade) carefully
over the ground, half-way
between their own goal
and the body of their own
players-up (the heavy brigade).
These again play in several
bodies. There is young
Brooke and the bull-dogs.
Mark them well. They are
the "fighting brigade," the "die-hards," larking
about at leap-frog to keep
themselves warm, and playing
tricks on one another.
And on each side of old
Brooke, who is now standing
in the middle of the ground
and just going to kick
off, you see a separate
wing of players-up, each
with a boy of acknowledged
prowess to look to - here
Warner, and there Hedge;
but over all is old Brooke,
absolute as he of Russia,
but wisely and bravely
ruling over willing and
worshipping subjects, a
true football king. His
face is earnest and careful
as he glances a last time
over his array, but full
of pluck and hope - the
sort of look I hope to
see in my general when
I go out to fight.
The School side is not
organized in the same way.
The goal- keepers are all
in lumps, anyhow and nohow;
you can't distinguish between
the players-up and the
boys in quarters, and there
is divided leadership.
But with such odds in strength
and weight it must take
more than that to hinder
them from winning; and
so their leaders seem to
think, for they let the
players-up manage themselves.
But now
look! there is a slight
move forward of
the School-house wings,
a shout of "Are you
ready?" and loud affirmative
reply. Old Brooke takes
half a dozen quick steps,
and away goes the ball
spinning towards the School
goal, seventy yards before
it touches ground, and
at no point above twelve
or fifteen feet high, a
model kick-off; and the
School-house cheer and
rush on. The ball is returned,
and they meet it and drive
it back amongst the masses
of the School already in
motion. Then the two sides
close, and you can see
nothing for minutes but
a swaying crowd of boys,
at one point violently
agitated. That is where
the ball is, and there
are the keen players to
be met, and the glory and
the hard knocks to be got.
You hear the dull thud,
thud of the ball, and the
shouts of "Off your
side," "Down
with him," "Put
him over," "Bravo." This
is what we call "a
scrummage," gentlemen,
and the first scrummage
in a School-house match
was no joke in the consulship
of Plancus.
But see!
it has broken; the ball
is driven out
on the School- house side,
and a rush of the School
carries it past the School-
house players-up. "Look
out in quarters," Brooke's
and twenty other voices
ring out. No need to call,
though: the School- house
captain of quarters has
caught it on the bound,
dodges the foremost School
boys, who are heading the
rush, and sends it back
with a good drop-kick well
into the enemy's country.
And then follows rush upon
rush, and scrummage upon
scrummage, the ball now
driven through into the
School-house quarters,
and now into the School
goal; for the School-house
have not lost the advantage
which the kick-off and
a slight wind gave them
at the outset, and are
slightly "penning" their
adversaries. You say you
don't see much in it all
- nothing but a struggling
mass of boys, and a leather
ball which seems to excite
them all to great fury,
as a red rag does a bull.
My dear sir, a battle would
look much the same to you,
except that the boys would
be men, and the balls iron;
but a battle would be worth
your looking at for all
that, and so is a football
match. You can't be expected
to appreciate the delicate
strokes of play, the turns
by which a game is lost
and won - it takes an old
player to do that; but
the broad philosophy of
football you can understand
if you will. Come along
with me a little nearer,
and let us consider it
together.
The ball
has just fallen again
where the two sides
are thickest, and they
close rapidly around it
in a scrummage. It must
be driven through now by
force or skill, till it
flies out on one side or
the other. Look how differently
the boys face it! Here
come two of the bulldogs,
bursting through the outsiders;
in they go, straight to
the heart of the scrummage,
bent on driving that ball
out on the opposite side.
That is what they mean
to do. My sons, my sons!
you are too hot; you have
gone past the ball, and
must struggle now right
through the scrummage,
and get round and back
again to your own side,
before you can be of any
further use. Here comes
young Brooke; he goes in
as straight as you, but
keeps his head, and backs
and bends, holding himself
still behind the ball,
and driving it furiously
when he gets the chance.
Take a leaf out of his
book, you young chargers.
Here comes Speedicut, and
Flashman the School-house
bully, with shouts and
great action. Won't you
two come up to young Brooke,
after locking-up, by the
School-house fire, with "Old
fellow, wasn't that just
a splendid scrummage by
the three trees?" But
he knows you, and so do
we. You don't really want
to drive that ball through
that scrummage, chancing
all hurt for the glory
of the School-house, but
to make us think that's
what you want - a vastly
different thing; and fellows
of your kidney will never
go through more than the
skirts of a scrummage,
where it's all push and
no kicking. We respect
boys who keep out of it,
and don't sham going in;
but you - we had rather
not say what we think of
you.
Then the boys who are
bending and watching on
the outside, mark them:
they are most useful players,
the dodgers, who seize
on the ball the moment
it rolls out from amongst
the chargers, and away
with it across to the opposite
goal. They seldom go into
the scrummage, but must
have more coolness than
the chargers. As endless
as are boys' characters,
so are their ways of facing
or not facing a scrummage
at football.
Three-quarters
of an hour are gone;
first winds are
failing, and weight and
numbers beginning to tell.
Yard by yard the School-
house have been driven
back, contesting every
inch of ground. The bull-dogs
are the colour of mother
earth from shoulder to
ankle, except young Brooke,
who has a marvellous knack
of keeping his legs. The
School-house are being
penned in their turn, and
now the ball is behind
their goal, under the Doctor's
wall. The Doctor and some
of his family are there
looking on, and seem as
anxious as any boy for
the success of the School-
house. We get a minute's
breathing-time before old
Brooke kicks out, and he
gives the word to play
strongly for touch, by
the three trees. Away goes
the ball, and the bull-dogs
after it, and in another
minute there is shout of "In
touch!" "Our
ball!" Now's your
time, old Brooke, while
your men are still fresh.
He stands with the ball
in his hand, while the
two sides form in deep
lines opposite one another;
he must strike it straight
out between them. The lines
are thickest close to him,
but young Brooke and two
or three of his men are
shifting up farther, where
the opposite line is weak.
Old Brooke strikes it out
straight and strong, and
it falls opposite his brother.
Hurrah! that rush has taken
it right through the School
line, and away past the
three trees, far into their
quarters, and young Brooke
and the bull-dogs are close
upon it. The School leaders
rush back, shouting, "Look
out in goal!" and
strain every nerve to catch
him, but they are after
the fleetest foot in Rugby.
There they go straight
for the School goal-posts,
quarters scattering before
them. One after another
the bull-dogs go down,
but young Brooke holds
on. "He is down." No!
a long stagger, but the
danger is past. That was
the shock of Crew, the
most dangerous of dodgers.
And now he is close to
the School goal, the ball
not three yards before
him. There is a hurried
rush of the School fags
to the spot, but no one
throws himself on the ball,
the only chance, and young
Brooke has touched it right
under the School goal-posts.
The School
leaders come up furious,
and administer
toco to the wretched fags
nearest at hand. They may
well be angry, for it is
all Lombard Street to a
china orange that the School-house
kick a goal with the ball
touched in such a good
place. Old Brooke, of course,
will kick it out, but who
shall catch and place it?
Call Crab Jones. Here he
comes, sauntering along
with a straw in his mouth,
the queerest, coolest fish
in Rugby. If he were tumbled
into the moon this minute,
he would just pick himself
up without taking his hands
out of his pockets or turning
a hair. But it is a moment
when the boldest charger's
heart beats quick. Old
Brooke stands with the
ball under his arm motioning
the School back; he will
not kick out till they
are all in goal, behind
the posts. They are all
edging forwards, inch by
inch, to get nearer for
the rush at Crab Jones,
who stands there in front
of old Brooke to catch
the ball. If they can reach
and destroy him before
he catches, the danger
is over; and with one and
the same rush they will
carry it right away to
the School-house goal.
Fond hope! it is kicked
out and caught beautifully.
Crab strikes his heel into
the ground, to mark the
spot where the ball was
caught, beyond which the
school line may not advance;
but there they stand, five
deep, ready to rush the
moment the ball touches
the ground. Take plenty
of room. Don't give the
rush a chance of reaching
you. Place it true and
steady. Trust Crab Jones.
He has made a small hole
with his heel for the ball
to lie on, by which he
is resting on one knee,
with his eye on old Brooke. "Now!" Crab
places the ball at the
word, old Brooke kicks,
and it rises slowly and
truly as the School rush
forward.
Then a moment's pause,
while both sides look up
at the spinning ball. There
it flies, straight between
the two posts, some five
feet above the cross-bar,
an unquestioned goal; and
a shout of real, genuine
joy rings out from the
School-house players-up,
and a faint echo of it
comes over the close from
the goal- keepers under
the Doctor's wall. A goal
in the first hour - such
a thing hasn't been done
in the School-house match
these five years.
"Over!" is
the cry. The two sides
change
goals, and the School-
house goal-keepers come
threading their way across
through the masses of the
School, the most openly
triumphant of them - amongst
whom is Tom, a School-house
boy of two hours' standing
- getting their ears boxed
in the transit. Tom indeed
is excited beyond measure,
and it is all the sixth-form
boy, kindest and safest
of goal-keepers, has been
able to do, to keep him
from rushing out whenever
the ball has been near
their goal. So he holds
him by his side, and instructs
him in the science of touching.
At this moment Griffith,
the itinerant vender of
oranges from Hill Morton,
enters the close with his
heavy baskets. There is
a rush of small boys upon
the little pale-faced man,
the two sides mingling
together, subdued by the
great goddess Thirst, like
the English and French
by the streams in the Pyrenees.
The leaders are past oranges
and apples, but some of
them visit their coats,
and apply innocent-looking
ginger-beer bottles to
their mouths. It is no
ginger-beer though, I fear,
and will do you no good.
One short mad rush, and
then a stitch in the side,
and no more honest play.
That's what comes of those
bottles.
But now Griffith's baskets
are empty, the ball is
placed again midway, and
the School are going to
kick off. Their leaders
have sent their lumber
into goal, and rated the
rest soundly, and one hundred
and twenty picked players-up
are there, bent on retrieving
the game. They are to keep
the ball in front of the
School-house goal, and
then to drive it in by
sheer strength and weight.
They mean heavy play and
no mistake, and so old
Brooke sees, and places
Crab Jones in quarters
just before the goal, with
four or five picked players
who are to keep the ball
away 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 ground,
the ball well down amongst
them, straight for our
goal, like the column of
the Old Guard up the slope
at Waterloo. All former
charges have been child's
play to this. Warner and
Hedge have met them, but
still on they come. The
bull-dogs rush in for the
last time; they are hurled
over or carried back, striving
hand, foot, and eyelids.
Old Brooke comes sweeping
round the skirts of the
play, and turning short
round, picks out the very
heart of the scrummage,
and plunges in. It wavers
for a moment; he has the
ball. No, it has passed
him, and his voice rings
out clear over the advancing
tide, "Look out in
goal!" Crab Jones
catches it for a moment;
but before he can kick,
the rush is upon him and
passes over him; and he
picks himself up behind
them with his straw in
his mouth, a little dirtier,
but as cool as ever.
The ball rolls slowly
in behind the School-house
goal, not three yards in
front of a dozen of the
biggest School players-up.
There
stands the School-house
prepostor, safest of goal-keepers,
and Tom Brown by his side,
who has learned his trade
by this time. Now is your
time, Tom. The blood of
all the Browns is up, and
the two rush in together,
and throw themselves on
the ball, under the very
feet of the advancing column
- the prepostor on his
hands and knees, arching
his back, and Tom all along
on his face. Over them
topple the leaders of the
rush, shooting over the
back of the prepostor,
but falling flat on Tom,
and knocking all the wind
out of his small carcass. "Our
ball," says the prepostor,
rising with his prize; "but
get up there; there's a
little fellow under you." They
are hauled and roll off
him, and Tom is discovered,
a motionless body.
Old Brooke
picks him up. "Stand
back, give him air," he
says; and then feeling
his limbs, adds, "No
bones broken. - How do
you feel, young un?"
"Hah-hah!" gasps
Tom, as his wind comes
back; "pretty well,
thank you - all right."
"Who is he?" says
Brooke.
"Oh, it's Brown;
he's a new boy; I know
him," says East, coming
up.
"Well, he is a plucky
youngster, and will make
a player," says Brooke.
And five
o'clock strikes. "No
side" is called, and
the first day of the School-house
match is over.
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