A Dog with a Bad Name | Page 8

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 centre, drinking in every sound and marking every movement, but not attempting again to challenge the resentment of his school-fellows by attempting to enter the awe-struck circle.
It seemed an age before help came. The crowd stood round silent and motionless, with their eyes fixed on the poor lifeless head which rested on Mr Freshfield's knee; straining their eyes for one sign of animation, yearning still more for the arrival of the doctor.
Mr Freshfield did not dare to lift the form, or even beyond gently raising the head, to move it in any way. How anxiously all watched as, when the water arrived, he softly sponged the brow and held the glass to the white lips!
Alas! the dark lashes still drooped over those closed eyes, and as each moment passed Bolsover felt that it stood in the shadow of death.
At last there was a stir, as the sound of wheels approached in the lane. And presently the figure of the doctor, accompanied by Mr Frampton, was seen running across