The Gold Bat | Page 9

second. His only real
rival, he considered, was Crawford, of the School House, who was the
other wing three-quarter of the third fifteen. The first name he saw on
the list was Crawford's. It seemed to be written twice as large as any of

the others, and his own was nowhere to be seen. The fact that he had
half expected the calamity made things no better. He had set his heart
on playing for the second this term.
Then suddenly he noticed a remarkable phenomenon. The other wing
three-quarter was Rand-Brown. If Rand-Brown was playing for the
second, who was playing for the first?
He looked at the list.
"Come on," he said hastily to M'Todd. He wanted to get away
somewhere where his agitated condition would not be noticed. He felt
quite faint at the shock of seeing his name on the list of the first fifteen.
There it was, however, as large as life. "M. Barry." Separated from the
rest by a thin red line, but still there. In his most optimistic moments he
had never dreamed of this. M'Todd was reading slowly through the list
of the second. He did everything slowly, except eating.
"Come on," said Barry again.
M'Todd had, after much deliberation, arrived at a profound truth. He
turned to Barry, and imparted his discovery to him in the weighty
manner of one who realises the importance of his words.
"Look here," he said, "your name's not down here."
"I know. Come on."
"But that means you're not playing for the second."
"Of course it does. Well, if you aren't coming, I'm off."
"But, look here----"
Barry disappeared through the door. After a moment's pause, M'Todd
followed him. He came up with him on the senior gravel.
"What's up?" he inquired.

"Nothing," said Barry.
"Are you sick about not playing for the second?"
"No."
"You are, really. Come and have a bun."
In the philosophy of M'Todd it was indeed a deep-rooted sorrow that
could not be cured by the internal application of a new, hot bun. It had
never failed in his own case.
"Bun!" Barry was quite shocked at the suggestion. "I can't afford to get
myself out of condition with beastly buns."
"But if you aren't playing----"
"You ass. I'm playing for the first. Now, do you see?"
M'Todd gaped. His mind never worked very rapidly. "What about
Rand-Brown, then?" he said.
"Rand-Brown's been chucked out. Can't you understand? You are an
idiot. Rand-Brown's playing for the second, and I'm playing for the
first."
"But you're----"
He stopped. He had been going to point out that Barry's tender
years--he was only sixteen--and smallness would make it impossible
for him to play with success for the first fifteen. He refrained owing to
a conviction that the remark would not be wholly judicious. Barry was
touchy on the subject of his size, and M'Todd had suffered before now
for commenting on it in a disparaging spirit.
"I tell you what we'll do after school," said Barry, "we'll have some
running and passing. It'll do you a lot of good, and I want to practise
taking passes at full speed. You can trot along at your ordinary pace,
and I'll sprint up from behind."

M'Todd saw no objection to that. Trotting along at his ordinary
pace--five miles an hour--would just suit him.
"Then after that," continued Barry, with a look of enthusiasm, "I want
to practise passing back to my centre. Paget used to do it awfully well
last term, and I know Trevor expects his wing to. So I'll buck along,
and you race up to take my pass. See?"
This was not in M'Todd's line at all. He proposed a slight alteration in
the scheme.
"Hadn't you better get somebody else--?" he began.
"Don't be a slack beast," said Barry. "You want exercise awfully
badly."
And, as M'Todd always did exactly as Barry wished, he gave in, and
spent from four-thirty to five that afternoon in the prescribed manner. A
suggestion on his part at five sharp that it wouldn't be a bad idea to go
and have some tea was not favourably received by the enthusiastic
three-quarter, who proposed to devote what time remained before
lock-up to practising drop-kicking. It was a painful alternative that
faced M'Todd. His allegiance to Barry demanded that he should
consent to the scheme. On the other hand, his allegiance to afternoon
tea--equally strong--called him back to the house, where there was cake,
and also muffins. In the end the question was solved by the appearance
of Drummond, of Seymour's, garbed in football things, and also
anxious to practise drop-kicking. So M'Todd was dismissed to his tea
with opprobrious epithets, and Barry and Drummond settled down to a
little serious and scientific work.
Making allowances for the inevitable attack