Chapter Two.
A Football Tragedy.
The two days’ grace which Mr Frampton had almost reluctantly allowed before putting into execution his new rule of compulsory athletics told very much in his favour.
Bolsover, after the first shock, grew used to the idea and even resigned. After all, it would be a variety, and things were precious dull as they were. As to making a rule of it, that was absurd, and Frampton could hardly be serious when he talked of doing so. But on Saturday, if it was fine, and they felt in the humour—well, they would see about it.
With which condescending resolution they returned to their loafings and novels and secret cigarettes, and tried to forget all about Mr Frampton.
But Mr Frampton had no idea of being forgotten. He had the schoolmaster’s virtue of enthusiasm, but he lacked the schoolmaster’s virtue of patience. He hated the dry-rot like poison, and could not rest till he had ripped up every board and rafter that harboured it.
Any ordinary reformer would have been satisfied with the week’s work he had already accomplished. But Mr Frampton added yet another blow at the very heart of the dry-rot before the week was out.
On the day before the football match Bolsover was staggered, and, so to speak, struck all of a heap by the announcement that in future the school tuck-shop would be closed until after the dinner hour!
Fellows stared at one another with a sickly, incredulous smile when they first heard the grim announcement and wondered whether, after all, the new head-master was an escaped lunatic. A few gifted with more presence of mind than others bethought them of visiting the shop and of dispelling the hideous nightmare by optical demonstration.
Alas! the shutters were up. Mother Partridge was not at the receipt of custom, but instead, written in the bold, square hand of Mr Frampton himself, there confronted them the truculent notice, “The shop will for the future be open only before breakfast and after dinner.”
“Brutal!” gasped Farfield, as he read it. “Does he mean to starve us as well as drown us?”
“Hard lines for poor old Mother Partridge,” suggested Scarfe.
This cry took. There was somehow a lurking sense of shame which made it difficult for Bolsover to rise in arms on account of the injury done to itself. Money had been wasted, appetites had been lost, digestions had been ruined in that shop, and they knew it.
If you had put the question to any one of the boys who crowded down, hungry after their bath, to breakfast on the day of the football match, he would have told you that Frampton was as great a brute as ever, and that it was a big shame to make fellows play whether they liked it or not. For all that, he would tell you, he was going to play, much as he hated it, to avoid a row. And if you had pressed him further he would have confided to you that it was expected the School would beat the Sixth, and that he rather hoped, as he must play, he would get a chance at the ball before the match was over. From all which you might gather that Bolsover was reluctantly coming round to take an interest in the event.
“Fortune favours the brave,” said Mr Steele, one of his assistants, to the head-master at dinner-time. “You have conquered before you have struck, mighty Caesar.”
Mr Frampton smiled. He was flushed and excited. Two days ago he had seemed to be committed to a desperate venture. Now, a straight path seemed to open before him, and Bolsover, in his enthusiastic imagination, was already a reformed, reinvigorated institution.
“Yes, Steele,” said he, as he glanced from the window and watched the boys trooping down towards the meadow. “This day will be remembered at Bolsover.”
Little dreamed the brave head-master how truly his prophecy would be fulfilled.
An arrangement had been made to give the small boys a match of their own. The young gladiators themselves, who had secretly wept over their impending doom, were delighted to be removed beyond the reach of the giants of the Sixth. And the leaders of the School forces were devoutly thankful to be disencumbered of a crowd of meddlesome “kids” who would have spoiled sport, even if they did not litter the ground with their corpses.
The sight of the new goal posts and ball, which Mr Freshfield, a junior master, was heard to explain was a present from the head-master to the school, had also a mollifying effect. And the bracing freshness of the air and the self-respect engendered by the sensation of their flannels (for most of the players had contrived to provide themselves with armour of this healthy material) completed their reconciliation to their lot, and drove all feelings of resentment against their tyrant, for the present at any rate, quite out of their heads.
In a hurried consultation of the seniors, Farfield, who was known to be a player, was nominated captain of the senior force; while a similar council of war among the juniors had resulted in the appointment of Ranger of the Fifth to lead the hosts of the School.
Mr Freshfield, with all the ardour of an old general, assisted impartially in advising as to the disposition of the field on either side; and, for the benefit of such as might be inexperienced at the game, rehearsed briefly some of the chief rules of the game as played under the Rugby laws.
“Now, are you ready?” said he, when all preliminaries were settled, and the ball lay, carefully titled, ready for Farfield’s kick-off.
“Wait a bit,” cried some one. “Where’s Jeffreys?”
Where, indeed? No one had noticed his absence till now; and one or two boys darted off to look for him.
But before they had gone far a white apparition appeared floundering across the meadow in the direction of the goals; and a shout of derisive welcome rose, as Jeffreys, arrayed in an ill-fitting suit of white holland, and crowned with his blue flannel cap, came on to the scene.
“He’s been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers,” said some one.
“Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in,” cried another.
“Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we’d got,” said a third, “not our Sunday best.”
Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on his strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy.
“Come on,” said Scarfe, as he drew near, “it wasn’t fair to the other side for you not to play.”
“I couldn’t find my boots,” replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him.
“Perhaps you’ll play forward,” said Farfield, “and if ever you don’t know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy’s sake let the ball alone.”
“Boo-hoo! I am in such a funk,” cried Forrester with his mocking laugh. “Thank goodness I’m playing back.”
“Come now,” called Mr Freshfield impatiently, “are you ready? Kick off, Farfield. Look out, School.”
Next moment the match had begun.
As might have been expected, there was at first a great deal more confusion than play. Bolsover was utterly unused to doing anything together, and football of all games needs united action.
There was a great deal of scrimmaging, but very few kicks and very few runs. The ball was half the time invisible, and the other half in touch. Mr Freshfield had time after time to order a throw-in to be repeated, or rule a kick as “off-side.” The more ardent players forgot the duty of protecting their flanks and rear; and the more timid neglected their chances of “piling up” the scrimmages. The Sixth got in the way of the Sixth, and the School often spoiled the play of the School.
But after a quarter of an hour or so the chaos began 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 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.