“I shall be very glad,” said Reader—though, if truth must be told, his politeness cost him an effort—“if your uncle and aunt will let me. I’m almost as great a stranger, though, in the town as they are.”
“You are very kind, sir,” said Jim’s aunt, who had been long since gained over by the enemy. “We shall be most pleased to have your escort. Eh, my love? Besides, we shall help to keep you out in the fresh air for once. But, James,” she said, “I can’t get over you and Mr Newcome being opponents in this match and yet such friends.”
Every one laughed at this, and Charlie confided to the good lady his fixed determination of breaking her nephew’s legs before the day was out—a purpose which, from the speaker’s point of view, she could not help admitting was a laudable one.
Thus the breakfast ended very satisfactorily for everyone except the uncle, who had at last discovered the trap into which he had let himself fall, from which, however, he could not with grace free himself.
Three hours later the two worthies, having seen many of the sights of Cambridge with the advantage of Reader’s escort, found themselves with some hundreds of other spectators on the field in which the notable football-match of Cambridge versus Sandhurst was immediately about to begin.
Jim Halliday’s uncle and aunt could hardly have denied that the thirty young men, half of them in blue jerseys and half in red, who were now strolling out onto the ground, were as fine a body of youths as one could easily encounter in the course of a long day’s march. The picture of health and physique, they seemed almost like some of those heroes of old beside whom poor everyday man was wont to shrink into insignificance. Among the blues towered Jim, among the reds Charlie, two by no means the least noble-looking of the company.
“How well James looks in that dress, my love!” said the aunt.
“My love” could hardly dispute the fact, so he said nothing; but in his secret heart he began to doubt whether he had not taken an exaggerated view of the demoralising nature of athletic sports.
Play was soon ordered, and then amidst breathless silence the ball shot upward, propelled by the vigorous kick of the Sandhurst captain.
It is not my purpose to follow in all its details the famous match of which I was that day spectator. My muse has other things to sing of besides rallies and charges, scrimmages and drop kicks, touch-downs and passings. To me the game was chiefly interesting as it was interesting to Jim Halliday and Charlie Newcome; but as during the first part of the match both these worthies were what they would call “out of it”—that is, on outpost duty—I found the company I was in better worth studying than the ups and downs of the football.