A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 7

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 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