“Chance! yes, it was only chance,” repeated Blackall, glad to find a plausible excuse for his defeat. A third round was to be played, but the younger party were so cocky that they proposed having four rounds. To this, of course, the others were too glad to consent, under the belief that they could at all events make it a drawn battle; while Ernest’s friends gloried in the hopes of beating their big opponents three to one.
Blackall having observed that Ernest placed his men according to a certain plan, thought he would do the same. He, therefore, with not a small amount of pretentious formality, ordered the boys on his side to look out in different directions, and to follow a certain course. Some went where they were told, but others proceeded to where they themselves considered that they should be better placed, and instead of obeying the orders of their leader, acted according to their own judgment, which, to do them justice, was fully as good as that of Blackall. Bracebridge watched the proceedings of his opponents, and smiled as he pointed them out to Buttar. He very soon made his own arrangements. Blackall thought that he was going to act precisely as he had done in the previous game. He had no such intentions. Handing the ball to Bouldon, he told him to strike it up, while he, Buttar, Ellis, Gregson, and several others went scattering up before him. The big fellows looked at him, and gathered thickly in his front. They took no notice of Ellis, who was away to the right. Bouldon looked towards Bracebridge; then, turning suddenly, struck the ball in the direction of Ellis, who followed it up ably as it came by him, and turned it towards Buttar. Buttar had in the meantime broken through the big fellows and though several of them, hurrying on, tried by reiterated blows to stop it, he carried it once more successfully up to the goal. Blackall and some of his party literally stamped with rage at the idea of being beaten three times running by the younger boys, “At all events, that puppy Bracebridge had nothing to do with the affair this time,” he exclaimed, showing the feeling which animated him.
Ernest’s party cheered again and again—they could not help it. Both sides agreed to play out the fourth game. Ernest managed his friends equally well as at first, but his opponents were more alive to his tactics. The battle was very hotly contested; several times he got the ball nearly to the goal, and it was again driven back. This game had already taken as long to play as the other three—defeat would be almost as honourable to the younger party as victory—they kept up the game by sheer activity and good play; not that the bigger boys played ill, but they wanted combination and a good leader. Blackall had now completely lost his head and his temper. Once or twice when Bracebridge came near he felt very much inclined to strike him, but Ernest watched his eye, and was very quickly out of his way. At last, Blackall found himself with the ball directly before him; he lifted up his stick, expecting to strike it right ahead up to the goal. He looked at the point before him to which he intended to send the ball, and he looked at his stick, and he looked at the ball, but he did not look on one side—had he done so, he would have perceived Bracebridge springing along with his stick ready to strike. Strike he did too, and away flew the ball out of Blackall’s very clutches. Blackall’s rage now burst forth—twice he struck Ernest across the shins, and though the latter managed to break the force of the blows, he was much hurt. Then the bully lifted up his stick and struck Ernest on the arm more than once. He was about to repeat the blow on his victim’s head, and the effect would have been very serious, when he felt his own ears pulled lustily.
“Ah, you big coward—is dat de vay you play your games? I’m ashamed dat any boy at de school vare I teach should behave so,” exclaimed the voice of Monsieur Malin. “If I do not take you instantly before de Doctor it is because it is too bad to tell him of, so I will pull your ears myself. Bah!”
Right heartily did the good-natured French master tug away at the bully’s ears till they were red to the very roots. He knew that he himself was doing what in spirit was prohibited, for no master was allowed to strike or punish a boy. He might have argued that pulling the ears was not striking, and that punishing meant flogging or caning. Blackall on another occasion might have resisted, but now he felt that he had been guilty of so cowardly an action that no one would support him, so he submitted tamely to the infliction.
“Go, get out of de ground, you shall not play—you are not worthy of it,” continued the French master, pulling him away by the before-spoken-of appendages of his head.
Meantime the games went on. Ernest, though much hurt, tried to exhibit no symptoms of his suffering. He and his friends strove hard, but the big fellows resolved not to lose this last game as they had done the others, and finally by strenuous exertions drove the ball up to the goal. Never was a game at hockey at our school more hotly contested. A great deal came out of it.