“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.