excited. Two days ago he had seemed to be committed to a desperate venture. Now, a straight path seemed to open before him, and Bolsover, in his enthusiastic imagination, was already a reformed, reinvigorated institution.

“Yes, Steele,” said he, as he glanced from the window and watched the boys trooping down towards the meadow. “This day will be remembered at Bolsover.”

Little dreamed the brave head-master how truly his prophecy would be fulfilled.

An arrangement had been made to give the small boys a match of their own. The young gladiators themselves, who had secretly wept over their impending doom, were delighted to be removed beyond the reach of the giants of the Sixth. And the leaders of the School forces were devoutly thankful to be disencumbered of a crowd of meddlesome “kids” who would have spoiled sport, even if they did not litter the ground with their corpses.

The sight of the new goal posts and ball, which Mr Freshfield, a junior master, was heard to explain was a present from the head-master to the school, had also a mollifying effect. And the bracing freshness of the air and the self-respect engendered by the sensation of their flannels (for most of the players had contrived to provide themselves with armour of this healthy material) completed their reconciliation to their lot, and drove all feelings of resentment against their tyrant, for the present at any rate, quite out of their heads.

In a hurried consultation of the seniors, Farfield, who was known to be a player, was nominated captain of the senior force; while a similar council of war among the juniors had resulted in the appointment of Ranger of the Fifth to lead the hosts of the School.

Mr Freshfield, with all the ardour of an old general, assisted impartially in advising as to the disposition of the field on either side; and, for the benefit of such as might be inexperienced at the game, rehearsed briefly some of the chief rules of the game as played under the Rugby laws.

“Now, are you ready?” said he, when all preliminaries were settled, and the ball lay, carefully titled, ready for Farfield’s kick-off.

“Wait a bit,” cried some one. “Where’s Jeffreys?”

Where, indeed? No one had noticed his absence till now; and one or two boys darted off to look for him.

But before they had gone far a white apparition appeared floundering across the meadow in the direction of the goals; and a shout of derisive welcome rose, as Jeffreys, arrayed in an ill-fitting suit of white holland, and crowned with his blue flannel cap, came on to the scene.

“He’s been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers,” said some one.

“Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in,” cried another.

“Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we’d got,” said a third, “not our Sunday best.”

Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on his strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy.

“Come on,” said Scarfe, as he drew near, “it wasn’t fair to the other side for you not to play.”

“I couldn’t find my boots,” replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him.

“Perhaps you’ll play forward,” said Farfield, “and if ever you don’t know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy’s sake let the ball alone.”

“Boo-hoo! I am in such a funk,” cried Forrester with his mocking laugh. “Thank goodness I’m playing back.”

“Come now,” called Mr Freshfield impatiently, “are you ready? Kick off, Farfield. Look out, School.”

Next moment the match had begun.

As might have been expected, there was at first a great deal more confusion than play. Bolsover was utterly unused to doing anything together, and football of all games needs united action.

There was a great deal of scrimmaging, but very few kicks and very few runs. The ball was half the time invisible, and the other half in touch. Mr Freshfield had time after time to order a throw-in to be repeated, or rule a kick as “off-side.” The more ardent players forgot the duty of protecting their flanks and rear; and the more timid neglected their chances of “piling up” the scrimmages. The Sixth got in the way of the Sixth, and the School often spoiled the play of the School.

But after a quarter of an hour or so the chaos began to resolve itself, and each side, so to speak, came down to its bearings. Mr Frampton, as he walked across from the small boys’ match, was surprised as well as delighted to notice the business-like way in which the best players on either side were settling down to their work. There was Farfield, flushed and dogged, leading on his forwards, and always on the ball. There was Scarfe, light and dodgy, ready for a run or a neat drop-kick from half-back. There was Ranger and Phipps of the Fifth, backing one another up like another Nisus and Euryalus. There was young Forrester, merry and plucky, saving his goal more than once by a prompt touch-down. There, even, was the elephantine Jeffreys, snorting and pounding in the thick of the fray, feeling his feet under him, and doing his clumsy best to fight the battle of his side.

The game went hard against the School, despite their determined rallies and gallant sorties. Young Forrester in goal had more than one man’s share of work; and Scarfe’s drops from the rear of the Sixth scrimmage flew near and still nearer the enemy’s goal.

Once, just before half-time, he had what seemed a safe chance, but at the critical moment Jeffreys’ ungainly bulk interposed, and received on his chest the ball which would certainly have carried victory to his side.

“Clumsy lout!” roared Farfield; “didn’t I tell you to stand out of the way and not go near the ball—you idiot! Go and play back, do.”

Jeffreys turned on him darkly.

“You think I did it on purpose,” said he. “I didn’t.”

“Go and play back!” repeated Farfield—“or go and hang yourself.”

Jeffreys took a long breath, and departed with a scowl to the rear.

“Half-time!” cried Mr Freshfield. “Change sides.”

It was a welcome summons. Both sides needed a little breathing space to gird themselves for the final tussle.

The School was elated at having so far eluded actual defeat, and cheerily rallied their opponents as they crossed over. Jeffreys, in particular, as he made moodily to his new station, came in for their jocular greetings.

“Thanks awfully, Cad, old man!” cried one; “we knew you’d give us a leg up.”

“My word! doesn’t he look pleased with himself!” said another. “No wonder!”

“Is that the way they taught you to play football at home?” said young Forrester, emphasising his question with an acorn neatly pitched at the Cad’s ear.

Jeffreys turned savagely with lifted arm, but Forrester was far beyond his enemy’s reach, and his hand dropped heavily at his own side as he continued his sullen march to the Sixth’s goal.

“Are you ready?” shouted Mr Freshfield. “Kick off. Ranger! Look out, Sixth!”

The game recommenced briskly. The School, following up the advantage of their kick-off, and cheered by their recent luck, made a desperate onslaught into the enemy’s territory, which for a while took all the energy of the Sixth to repel.

Phipps and Ranger were irrepressible, and had it not been for the steady play of Scarfe and the Sixth backs, that formidable pair of desperadoes might have turned the tide of victory by their own unaided exertions.

In the defence of the seniors, Jeffreys, it need hardly be said, took no part. He stood moodily near one of the posts, still glaring in the direction of his insulters, and apparently heedless of the fortunes, of the game.

His inaction, however, was not destined to last long.

The second half game had lasted about a quarter of an hour, and the School was still stubbornly holding their advanced