r own side, before 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
y