A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 4

for you, my boy."
"So am I; I'd like to see the Sixth beaten. But there's not much chance
of it if the kicking's left to you."
"I tell you what," said Forrester, ignoring the gibe. "I'm curious to
know what Cad Jeffreys means to do. We're bound to have some fun if
he's in it."
"Cad Jeffreys," said Scarfe, with a slight increase of scorn in his face
and voice, "will probably assist the School by playing for the Sixth."
Forrester laughed.
"I hear he nearly drowned himself in the bath the first day, and half
scragged Shrimpton for grinning at him. If he gets on as well at football,
Frampton will have something to answer for. Why, here he comes."
"Suppose you invite him to come and have a knock up with the ball,"
suggested the senior.
The figure which approached the couple was one which, familiar as it
was to Bolsover, would have struck a stranger as remarkable. A big
youth, so disproportionately built as to appear almost deformed, till you
noticed that his shoulders were unusually broad and his feet and hands

unusually large. Whether from indolence or infirmity it was hard to say,
his gait was shambling and awkward, and the strength that lurked in his
big limbs and chest seemed to unsteady him as he floundered top-
heavily across the play-ground. But his face was the most remarkable
part about him. The forehead, which overhung his small, keen eyes,
was large and wrinkled. His nose was flat, and his thick, restless lips
seemed to be engaged in an endless struggle to compel a steadiness
they never attained. It was an unattractive face, with little to redeem it
from being hideous. The power in it seemed all to centre in its angry
brow, and the softness in its restless mouth. The balance was bad, and
the general impression forbidding. Jeffreys was nineteen, but looked
older, for he had whiskers--an unpardonable sin in the eyes of
Bolsover--and was even a little bald. His voice was deep and loud. A
stranger would have mistaken him for an inferior master, or, judging
from his shabby garments, a common gardener.
Those who knew him were in no danger of making that mistake. No
boy was more generally hated. How he came by his name of Cad
Jeffreys no one knew, except that no other name could possibly
describe him. The small boys whispered to one another that once on a
time he had murdered his mother, or somebody. The curious discovered
that he was a lineal descendant of Judge Jeffreys, of hanging celebrity.
The seniors represented him as a cross between Nero and Caliban, and
could not forgive him for being head classic.
The one thing fellows could appreciate in him was his temper. A child
in arms, if he knew the way, could get a rise out of Cad Jeffreys, and in
these dull times that was something to be thankful for.
Forrester was perhaps the most expert of Jeffreys' enemies. He worried
the Cad not so much out of spite as because it amused him, and, like
the nimble matador, he kept well out of reach of the bull all the time he
was firing shots at him.
"Hullo, Jeff!" he called out, as the Cad approached. "Are you going to
play in the match on Saturday?"
"No," said Jeffreys.

"You're not? Haven't you got any old clothes to play in?"
Jeffreys' brow darkened. He glanced down at his own shabby garments,
and then at Scarfe's neat suit.
"I've got flannels," he said.
"Flannels! Why don't you play, then? Do you think you won't look well
in flannels? He would, wouldn't he, Scarfe?"
"I don't see how he could look better than he does now," replied Scarfe,
looking at the figure before him. Then noticing the black looks on his
enemy's face, he added--
"Forrester and I were having a little practice at kicking, Jeff. You may
as well join us, whether you play in the match or not."
"Why, are you going to play?" asked Jeffreys, not heeding the
invitation. "Frampton has no right to make us do it."
"Why not? He's head-master. Besides, you can get a doctor's certificate
if you like."
"No, I can't; I'm not ill."
"Then you'll have to play, of course. Everybody will, and you'd better
come and practise with us now. Do you know how to play?"
"Of course I do," said Jeffreys, "I've played at home."
"All serene. Have a shot at the goal, then."
The Cad's experience of football at home must have been of a humble
description, for his attempt at a kick now was a terrible fiasco. He
missed the ball completely, and, losing his balance at the same time,
fell heavily to the ground.
"Bravo!" cried Forrester,