A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 6

shop, and they knew it.
If you had put the question to any one of the boys who crowded down,
hungry after their bath, to breakfast on the day of the football match, he
would have told you that Frampton was as great a brute as ever, and
that it was a big shame to make fellows play whether they liked it or
not. For all that, he would tell you, he was going to play, much as he
hated it, to avoid a row. And if you had pressed him further he would
have confided to you that it was expected the School would beat the
Sixth, and that he rather hoped, as he must play, he would get a chance
at the ball before the match was over. From all which you might gather
that Bolsover was reluctantly coming round to take an interest in the
event.

"Fortune favours the brave," said Mr Steele, one of his assistants, to the
head-master at dinner-time. "You have conquered before you have
struck, mighty Caesar."
Mr Frampton smiled. He was flushed and excited. Two days ago he had
seemed to be committed to a desperate venture. Now, a straight path
seemed to open before him, and Bolsover, in his enthusiastic
imagination, was already a reformed, reinvigorated institution.
"Yes, Steele," said he, as he glanced from the window and watched the
boys trooping down towards the meadow. "This day will be
remembered at Bolsover."
Little dreamed the brave head-master how truly his prophecy would be
fulfilled.
An arrangement had been made to give the small boys a match of their
own. The young gladiators themselves, who had secretly wept over
their impending doom, were delighted to be removed beyond the reach
of the giants of the Sixth. And the leaders of the School forces were
devoutly thankful to be disencumbered of a crowd of meddlesome
"kids" who would have spoiled sport, even if they did not litter the
ground with their corpses.
The sight of the new goal posts and ball, which Mr Freshfield, a junior
master, was heard to explain was a present from the head-master to the
school, had also a mollifying effect. And the bracing freshness of the
air and the self-respect engendered by the sensation of their flannels
(for most of the players had contrived to provide themselves with
armour of this healthy material) completed their reconciliation to their
lot, and drove all feelings of resentment against their tyrant, for the
present at any rate, quite out of their heads.
In a hurried consultation of the seniors, Farfield, who was known to be
a player, was nominated captain of the senior force; while a similar
council of war among the juniors had resulted in the appointment of
Ranger of the Fifth to lead the hosts of the School.

Mr Freshfield, with all the ardour of an old general, assisted impartially
in advising as to the disposition of the field on either side; and, for the
benefit of such as might be inexperienced at the game, rehearsed briefly
some of the chief rules of the game as played under the Rugby laws.
"Now, are you ready?" said he, when all preliminaries were settled, and
the ball lay, carefully titled, ready for Farfield's kick-off.
"Wait a bit," cried some one. "Where's Jeffreys?"
Where, indeed? No one had noticed his absence till now; and one or
two boys darted off to look for him.
But before they had gone far a white apparition appeared floundering
across the meadow in the direction of the goals; and a shout of derisive
welcome rose, as Jeffreys, arrayed in an ill-fitting suit of white holland,
and crowned with his blue flannel cap, came on to the scene.
"He's been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers," said
some one.
"Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in," cried
another.
"Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we'd got," said a third,
"not our Sunday best."
Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on his
strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy.
"Come on," said Scarfe, as he drew near, "it wasn't fair to the other side
for you not to play."
"I couldn't find my boots," replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him.
"Perhaps you'll play forward," said Farfield, "and if ever you don't
know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy's
sake let the ball alone."

"Boo-hoo! I am in such a funk," cried Forrester with his mocking laugh.
"Thank goodness I'm playing back."
"Come now," called Mr Freshfield impatiently, "are you ready? Kick
off, Farfield. Look out, School."
Next moment the match had begun.
As might have been expected, there was at first a great deal more
confusion than