A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 7

play. Bolsover was utterly unused to doing anything
together, and football of all games needs united action.
There was a great deal of scrimmaging, but very few kicks and very
few runs. The ball was half the time invisible, and the other half in
touch. Mr Freshfield had time after time to order a throw-in to be
repeated, or rule a kick as "off-side." The more ardent players forgot
the duty of protecting their flanks and rear; and the more timid
neglected their chances of "piling up" the scrimmages. The Sixth got in
the way of the Sixth, and the School often spoiled the play of the
School.
But after a quarter of an hour or so the chaos began to resolve itself,
and each side, so to speak, came down to its bearings. Mr Frampton, as
he walked across from the small boys' match, was surprised as well as
delighted to notice the business-like way in which the best players on
either side were settling down to their work. There was Farfield,
flushed and dogged, leading on his forwards, and always on the ball.
There was Scarfe, light and dodgy, ready for a run or a neat drop-kick
from half-back. There was Ranger and Phipps of the Fifth, backing one
another up like another Nisus and Euryalus. There was young Forrester,
merry and plucky, saving his goal more than once by a prompt
touch-down. There, even, was the elephantine Jeffreys, snorting and
pounding in the thick of the fray, feeling his feet under him, and doing
his clumsy best to fight the battle of his side.
The game went hard against the School, despite their determined rallies
and gallant sorties. Young Forrester in goal had more than one man's
share of work; and Scarfe's drops from the rear of the Sixth scrimmage

flew near and still nearer the enemy's goal.
Once, just before half-time, he had what seemed a safe chance, but at
the critical moment Jeffreys' ungainly bulk interposed, and received on
his chest the ball which would certainly have carried victory to his side.
"Clumsy lout!" roared Farfield; "didn't I tell you to stand out of the way
and not go near the ball--you idiot! Go and play back, do."
Jeffreys turned on him darkly.
"You think I did it on purpose," said he. "I didn't."
"Go and play back!" repeated Farfield--"or go and hang yourself."
Jeffreys took a long breath, and departed with a scowl to the rear.
"Half-time!" cried Mr Freshfield. "Change sides."
It was a welcome summons. Both sides needed a little breathing space
to gird themselves for the final tussle.
The School was elated at having so far eluded actual defeat, and
cheerily rallied their opponents as they crossed over. Jeffreys, in
particular, as he made moodily to his new station, came in for their
jocular greetings.
"Thanks awfully, Cad, old man!" cried one; "we knew you'd give us a
leg up."
"My word! doesn't he look pleased with himself!" said another. "No
wonder!"
"Is that the way they taught you to play football at home?" said young
Forrester, emphasising his question with an acorn neatly pitched at the
Cad's ear.
Jeffreys turned savagely with lifted arm, but Forrester was far beyond
his enemy's reach, and his hand dropped heavily at his own side as he

continued his sullen march to the Sixth's goal.
"Are you ready?" shouted Mr Freshfield. "Kick off. Ranger! Look out,
Sixth!"
The game recommenced briskly. The School, following up the
advantage of their kick-off, and cheered by their recent luck, made a
desperate onslaught into the enemy's territory, which for a while took
all the energy of the Sixth to repel.
Phipps and Ranger were irrepressible, and had it not been for the steady
play of Scarfe and the Sixth backs, that formidable pair of desperadoes
might have turned the tide of victory by their own unaided exertions.
In the defence of the seniors, Jeffreys, it need hardly be said, took no
part. He stood moodily near one of the posts, still glaring in the
direction of his insulters, and apparently heedless of the fortunes, of the
game.
His inaction, however, was not destined to last long.
The second half game had lasted about a quarter of an hour, and the
School was still stubbornly holding their advanced position in the
proximity of the enemy's goal, when the ball suddenly, and by one of
those mysterious chances of battle, burst clear of the scrimmage and
darted straight to where Jeffreys stood.
"Pick it up and run--like mad!" shouted Farfield.
With a sudden swoop which astonished his beholders the Cad pounced
on the ball and started to run in the direction of the ill-protected goal of
the School.
Till they saw him in motion with an almost clear field ahead, no