"What'd we do if we were beaten?" asked Clive desperately. "Ranleigh'd go clean to the dogs."
"Rot!" came Bert's characteristic answer. "We'd just grind away again, and beat 'em next time, certain. But Ranleigh's going to win. I've put my bat against Masters' tennis shoes, and must have 'em. You'll see. Sturton'll pull us through, and those tennis shoes fit me to a T."
Susanne, the friendly Susanne, actually nodded to Rawlings on this great day, while Trendall failed to scowl at him as had been his custom. As for Rawlings himself, he was in a fever. He wasn't such a cur that he didn't wish to see Ranleigh victorious. But, then, victory meant even greater popularity for Sturton, for Norman, and for Harper and other members of the school, and Rawlings was intensely jealous of anyone's popularity. He would have been king of Ranleigh could he have ordered it. He would have been the highest and the noblest, and then, what a life he would lead some of the fellows! Susanne, for instance—yes, he hadn't forgotten Susanne's behaviour, and how he had worsted him at their first meeting. Norman, too, for he hated Norman now that he no longer could control him, and Clive Darrell. He sneered as he thought of the latter, but the sneer became a frown. Rawlings was not quite sure what his own particular feelings were as regards our hero. In his heart of hearts he rather feared him. And the secret knowledge he had, knowledge unsuspected by Clive and his mother, but vaguely suspected and hinted at by their old gardener, gave him added cause for fear. Still, Clive had nothing to gain by this match against Parkland, and therefore Rawlings betook himself to the playing-field with as cheerful a face as he could assume, arm in arm with Soper, one of his own kidney, a slacker—one, in fact, of Ranleigh's bad bargains.
By two o'clock the field was crammed. Ranleigh boys wandered round and round the touch line, cheering madly now and again when they met a crowd of opponents. For Parkland was near at hand, and had sent every boy and master to watch the historic contest. There was a terrific burst of cheering when at length the Parkland eleven put in an appearance. Big, hefty fellows, they came down to the field in a group, and, arrived at the outskirts, Barlow, their Captain, a fine fellow, even when compared with Sturton, took the practice ball and punted it.
"My word!" groaned Masters, watching it soar. "He's a kicker! If they're all like him what chance do we stand?"
The question was answered within the minute. For having gone back and forth, the ball was finally kicked again toward the entrance to the field, for another group of players had suddenly put in an appearance. It was Sturton and his eleven. The Captain caught the punted ball in mid-air, stepped a couple of paces forward and sent it hurtling toward the sky. A terrific cheer greeted the performance and the arrival of the home team. Not that Ranleigh had stood still and silent when Barlow and the Parkland team came on to the field. They gave them a lusty and noisy greeting, while Parkland fellows, naturally enough, yelled at the top of their voices. Ranleigh fellows were sportsmen ever, and could afford such a welcome. Still, they had their own duties to perform, and they let Sturton and his team know well, and Parkland fellows also, that their undivided favour went in one direction.
And now the touch-line was black with figures. Already Barlow and his men were on the field, while Sturton was just entering the touch-line. Clive felt a little cold thrill run down his spine as he watched their Captain. Sturton, his head a little in the air, a cool smile on his handsome face, led the way direct towards Barlow, and shook that fine fellow's hand eagerly. Then followed Robson, a little shorter than Sturton, but nicely built, with particularly well-made legs and thighs. The back of his head supported his football colours, while issuing from beneath the cap was an abundance of fair hair. Robson also sported on his upper lip a line of similar-coloured fluff, much to Susanne's envy.
There was Norman close behind, Harper, the big Australian, and Purdey arm in arm, laughing heartily at some joke passing between them, Jenkins Primus immediately behind them and the remainder of the eleven. There was Bagshaw, too, dressed in a new suit of knicker-bockers, with a muffler round his neck, a flag in one hand and whistle in his pocket.
"Hooray for Ranleigh!" Masters started the shouting. The boys took it up all round the field with a vengeance, while the players arranged themselves.
"Parkland! Parkland for ever!" the enemy retorted with tremendous cheers, and then broke into the weirdest chant, something particular to Parkland.