The crowd made way for Rouse admiringly, and a characteristic smile, which in a young boy would have looked more roguish than anything else, began to appear at the corners of his mouth. In a game like this Rouse was in his element. He looked thoughtfully round the players and finally glanced up and down the touch-lines as if in search of any who had evaded his clutch. There came a ripple of amusement. Some of those present recalled that on the occasion of the corresponding match last year those who laughed the most uproariously from the touch-line had been marked down by Toby Nicholson’s eagle eye during the game, and at half time had been called upon to perform themselves. It was possible that this would occur again, and throughout the world those who have once succumbed to any catch are the keenest layers of the trap for the next man.
At last the whistle blew. Next moment Rouse had skipped nimbly into the midst of things, encouraging all with loud cries, and the idea of the switch in Rouse’s exuberant hands caused a great and lasting enthusiasm amongst the players that was exceedingly stirring. Forwards fought for a place in the front row of the scrum, and many a youth who thought himself likely to be considered late might be heard loudly declaiming the fact that he had already packed down once, but finding himself the fourth man in the front row had been compelled to retire.
At last one line of three-quarters was fairly away with the ball, and Rouse went racing across from one to the other, whirling his arm to ensure that each man took his pass at top speed. Ultimately the wing received the ball, and being entirely new to the game clearly did not know what to do with it. For a moment he paused and looked round in sheer bewilderment. It was fatal. There came a rush of air, and Rouse was up alongside, driving him forward and shouting aloud definite instructions. A tall thin boy came towards them and made his tackle; in a mad moment he went high. Too late he realised his mistake. Out of the corner of his eyes he was conscious of the switch, and his hands slid down to the runner’s knees and tightened their grip till both came to the ground and rolled over and over, whilst the ball flew forwards and was gathered by an excited youth in abnormally long knickerbockers of homemade design. Then, high above the laughter of the crowd, there sounded a great bellow, something akin to the cry of a thoroughly mad hyæna. At first it was difficult to locate. Rouse paused and his eyes passed swiftly down either touch-line. The laughter stopped, and he stepped out and cut lightly at a boy who had just received the ball in his hands and had not got away so smartly as he should. The game proceeded. Now and again that loud, extravagant laugh sounded across the field and caused others to turn in search of it. As a noise it was altogether novel. Evidently some poor boy was absolutely unable to control his merriment, and unaware of the fate that would follow him he gave it full rein. At last there could be no doubt who was doing it; the laugh became a magnet. Every head was turned towards it. Half time came, and Rouse spun on his heel and located it definitely. He walked across. On the touch-line he stretched out his hand and pointed out the unfortunate creature. It was the boy of such surprising fatness, the stupid-looking boy, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Toby Nicholson had moved up alongside Rouse.
“Look here,” said he, “why is it you are not playing?”
The fat boy shook his head.
“I don’t play that game.”
Rouse thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded his head.
“Ah,” said he, “many a man is walking down the Strand to-day with the linings of his pockets hanging out, many a lordly mansion has been crumbled into dust, many a stately avenue of elms laid low, many a boy will be knocking at the door of Dr Barnardo’s Home to-night ... all because somebody hasn’t learned the lesson of Rugby football. Do you know that?”
“Why, no,” said the fat boy quakingly.
Toby had produced a small book.