A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 8

one
had had any conception how powerfully he was built or how fast he
could run. The School, rash and sanguine of victory, had pressed to the
front, leaving scarcely half a dozen behind to guard their rear.

Three of these Jeffreys had passed before the School was well aware
what he was doing. Then a shout of consternation arose, mingled with
the frantic cheers of the Sixth.
"Collar him! Have him over! Stop him there! Look out in goal!"
But Jeffreys was past stopping. Like a cavalry charger who dashes on
to the guns heedless of everything, and for the time being gone mad, so
the Bolsover Cad, with the shouts behind him and the enemy's goal in
front, saw and heard nothing else. The two men who stepped out at him
were brushed aside like reeds before a boat's keel; and with half the
field before him only one enemy remained between him and victory.
That enemy was young Forrester! There was something almost terrible
in the furious career of the big boy as he bore down on the fated goal.
Those behind ceased to pursue, and watched the result in breathless
suspense.
Even the saucy light on Forrester's face faded as he hesitated a moment
between fear and duty.
"Collar him there!" shouted the School.
"He'll pass him easily," said the Sixth.
Forrester stepped desperately across his adversary's path, resolved to do
his duty, cost what it might.
Jeffreys never swerved from his course, right or left.
"He's going to charge the youngster!" gasped Farfield.
Forrester, who had counted on the runner trying to pass him, became
suddenly aware that the huge form was bearing straight down upon
him.
The boy was no coward, but for a moment he stood paralysed.
That moment was fatal. There was a crash, a shout! Next moment

Jeffreys was seen staggering to his feet and carrying the ball behind the
goal. But no one heeded him. Every eye was turned to where young
Forrester lay on his back motionless, with his face as white as death.
CHAPTER THREE.
GONE!
It would be difficult to picture the horror and dismay which followed
the terrible termination to the football match described in our last
chapter.
For a second or two every one stood where he was, as if rooted to the
ground. Then with an exclamation of horror Mr Freshfield bounded to
the side of the prostrate boy.
"Stand back and give him air!" cried the master, as the school closed
round and gazed with looks of terror on the form of their companion.
He lay with one arm above his head just as he had fallen. His cap lay a
yard or two off where he had tossed it before making his final charge.
His eyes were closed, and the deathly pallor of his face was unmoved
by even a quiver of life.
"He's dead!" gasped Farfield.
Mr Freshfield, who had been hastily loosening Forrester's collar, and
had rested his hand for an instant on his heart, looked up with a face
almost as white as the boy's and said--
"Go for the doctor!--and some water."
Half a dozen boys started--thankful to do anything. Before the ring
could close up again the ungainly form of Jeffreys, still panting from
his run, elbowed his way to the front. As his eyes fell on the form of his
victim his face turned an ashy hue. Those who watched him saw that he
was struggling to speak, but no words came. He stood like one turned
suddenly to stone.

But not for long.
With a cry something resembling a howl, the school by a sudden
simultaneous movement turned upon him.
He put up his hand instinctively, half-deprecatingly, half in self-
defence. Then as his eyes dropped once more on the motionless form
over which Mr Freshfield was bending, he took half a step forward and
gasped, "I did not--"
Whatever he had intended to say was drowned by another howl of
execration. The sound of his voice seemed to have opened the
floodgates and let loose the pent-up feelings of the onlookers. A score
of boys rushed between him and his victim and hustled him roughly out
of the ring.
"Murderer!" cried Scarfe as he gave the first thrust.
And amidst echoes of that terrible cry the Cad was driven forth.
Once he turned with savage face, as though he would resist and fight
his way back into the ring. But it was only for a moment. It may have
been a sudden glimpse of that marble face on the grass, or it may have
been terror. But his uplifted hand fell again at his side, and he dragged
himself dejectedly to the outskirts of the crowd.
There he still hovered, his livid face always turned towards the