you can be of any further use.  Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, but keeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the ball, and driving it furiously when he gets the chance.  Take a leaf out of his book, you young chargers.  Here comes Speedicut, and Flashman the School-house bully, with shouts and great action.  Won’t you two come up to young Brooke, after locking-up, by the School-house fire, with “Old fellow, wasn’t that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees?” But he knows you, and so do we.  You don’t really want to drive that ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt for the glory of the School-house, but to make us think that’s what you want—­a vastly different thing; and fellows of your kidney will never go through more than the skirts of a scrummage, where it’s all push and no kicking.  We respect boys who keep out of it, and don’t sham going in; but you—­we had rather not say what we think of you.

Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them:  they are most useful players, the dodgers, who seize on the ball the moment it rolls out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across to the opposite goal.  They seldom go into the scrummage, but must have more coolness than the chargers.  As endless as are boys’ characters, so are their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at football.

Three-quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight and numbers beginning to tell.  Yard by yard the School-house have been driven back, contesting every inch of ground.  The bull-dogs are the colour of mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who has a marvellous knack of keeping his legs.  The School-house are being penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal, under the Doctor’s wall.  The Doctor and some of his family are there looking on, and seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the School-house.  We get a minute’s breathing-time before old Brooke kicks out, and he gives the word to play strongly for touch, by the three trees.  Away goes the ball, and the bull-dogs after it, and in another minute there is shout of “In touch!” “Our ball!” Now’s your time, old Brooke, while your men are still fresh.  He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two sides form in deep lines opposite one another; he must strike it straight out between them.  The lines are thickest close to him, but young Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up farther, where the opposite line is weak.  Old Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his brother.  Hurrah! that rush has taken it right through the School line, and away past the three trees, far into their quarters, and young Brooke and the bull-dogs are close upon it.  The School leaders rush back, shouting, “Look out in goal!” and strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after the fleetest foot in Rugby.  There they go straight for the School goal-posts, quarters