scattering before them.  One after another the bull-dogs go down, but young Brooke holds on.  “He is down.”  No! a long stagger, but the danger is past.  That was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers.  And now he is close to the School goal, the ball not three yards before him.  There is a hurried rush of the School fags to the spot, but no one throws himself on the ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has touched it right under the School goal-posts.

The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco to the wretched fags nearest at hand.  They may well be angry, for it is all Lombard Street to a china orange that the School-house kick a goal with the ball touched in such a good place.  Old Brooke, of course, will kick it out, but who shall catch and place it?  Call Crab Jones.  Here he comes, sauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish in Rugby.  If he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just pick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning a hair.  But it is a moment when the boldest charger’s heart beats quick.  Old Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the School back; he will not kick out till they are all in goal, behind the posts.  They are all edging forwards, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at Crab Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to catch the ball.  If they can reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over; and with one and the same rush they will carry it right away to the School-house goal.  Fond hope! it is kicked out and caught beautifully.  Crab strikes his heel into the ground, to mark the spot where the ball was caught, beyond which the school line may not advance; but there they stand, five deep, ready to rush the moment the ball touches the ground.  Take plenty of room.  Don’t give the rush a chance of reaching you.  Place it true and steady.  Trust Crab Jones.  He has made a small hole with his heel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one knee, with his eye on old Brooke.  “Now!” Crab places the ball at the word, old Brooke kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the School rush forward.

Then a moment’s pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball.  There it flies, straight between the two posts, some five feet above the cross-bar, an unquestioned goal; and a shout of real, genuine joy rings out from the School-house players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over the close from the goal-keepers under the Doctor’s wall.  A goal in the first hour—­such a thing hasn’t been done in the School-house match these five years.

“Over!” is the cry.  The two sides change goals, and the School-house goal-keepers come threading their way across through the masses of the School, the most openly triumphant of them—­amongst whom is Tom, a School-house boy of two hours’ standing—­getting their ears boxed in the transit.  Tom indeed is excited beyond measure, and it is all the sixth-form boy, kindest and safest of goal-keepers, has been able to do, to keep him from rushing out whenever the ball has been near their goal.  So he holds him by his side, and instructs him in the science of touching.