A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 4

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, "I wish I'd learnt football at home; I couldn't do that to save my life."
"I slipped," said Jeffreys, rising slowly to his feet, and flushing crimson.
"Did you?" said the irreverent youth. "I thought it was part of the play. Stand out of the way, though, while I take a shot."
Before, however, Jeffreys could step aside, a neat and, for a wonder, accurate drop-kick from Forrester sent the ball violently against the