“Have you got that big man down who was so hot in the scrimmages? I forget his name. He’s not one of the delicate ones, I fancy.”
“No more are we; we’re not playing because—”
“Hullo! they’re waiting,” said the player, and went off, leaving the explanation still unfinished.
One of the last to run out was Corder.
“You young cad,” growled Clapperton as he passed; “take my advice and don’t play, unless—”
“Come on, Corder—waiting,” shouted Yorke.
Corder obeyed like lightning.
The match began disastrously for Fellsgarth. Within five minutes of the kick-off, a run up by one of the Rendlesham quarter-backs carried the ball right into the School lines, and a touch-down resulted. On a fine day like last Saturday a goal would have been certain, but on the wet grass, the try did not come off. But five minutes later, a drop-kick from the middle of the field by the Rendlesham captain secured a magnificent goal for the home team.
Clapperton sneered.
“What I expected,” said he. “They’ll be lucky if they don’t lose a dozen.”