But now look! there is a slight move forward of the School-house wings, a shout of “Are you ready?” and loud affirmative reply.  Old Brooke takes half a dozen quick steps, and away goes the ball spinning towards the School goal, seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no point above twelve or fifteen feet high, a model kick-off; and the School-house cheer and rush on.  The ball is returned, and they meet it and drive it back amongst the masses of the School already in motion.  Then the two sides close, and you can see nothing for minutes but a swaying crowd of boys, at one point violently agitated.  That is where the ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, and the glory and the hard knocks to be got.  You hear the dull thud, thud of the ball, and the shouts of “Off your side,” “Down with him,” “Put him over,” “Bravo.”  This is what we call “a scrummage,” gentlemen, and the first scrummage in a School-house match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus.

But see! it has broken; the ball is driven out on the School-house side, and a rush of the School carries it past the School-house players-up.  “Look out in quarters,” Brooke’s and twenty other voices ring out.  No need to call, though:  the School-house captain of quarters has caught it on the bound, dodges the foremost School boys, who are heading the rush, and sends it back with a good drop-kick well into the enemy’s country.  And then follows rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrummage, the ball now driven through into the School-house quarters, and now into the School goal; for the School-house have not lost the advantage which the kick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and are slightly “penning” their adversaries.  You say you don’t see much in it all—­nothing but a struggling mass of boys, and a leather ball which seems to excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does a bull.  My dear sir, a battle would look much the same to you, except that the boys would be men, and the balls iron; but a battle would be worth your looking at for all that, and so is a football match.  You can’t be expected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns by which a game is lost and won—­it takes an old player to do that; but the broad philosophy of football you can understand if you will.  Come along with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together.

The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and they close rapidly around it in a scrummage.  It must be driven through now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other.  Look how differently the boys face it!  Here come two of the bulldogs, bursting through the outsiders; in they go, straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side.  That is what they mean to do.  My sons, my sons! you are too hot; you have gone past the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and get round and back again to your own side, before