f victory for the School. Hardly now could the spectators shout,
so tense was the struggle, so long was each full minute of action.
Michael's brain swam with excitement. He saw the Dulford team as giants
bull-necked and invulnerable. He saw the School halves shrinking, the
School three-quarters shiver like grass and the School forwards crumple
before the Dulford charges. They were beaten: the untarnished record was
broken: Michael could have sobbed for his side. Swifter than swallows,
the Dulford three-quarters flew down the now all too short field of
play. They were in! Look! they were dancing in triumph. A try to
Dulford! Disconsolately the School team lined up behind their disgraced
goal. Jauntily the Dulford half walked away with the shapely leather.
The onlookers held their breath, as the ball, evilly accurate,
dangerously direct, was poised in position for the kick at goal. The
signal was given: the School team made their rush: the ball rose in the
air: hung for a moment motionless, hit a goalpost, quivered and fell
back. One goal to a try--five points to three--and St. James' was
leading. Then indeed did the School play up. Then indeed did every man
in the team 'go low': and for the rest of the game to neither side did
any advantage incline. Grunts and muttered oaths, the thud of feet, the
smack of wet leather lasted continually. In the long line-ups for the
throw in from touch, each man marked his man viciously: the sweat poured
down from hanging jaws: vests were torn, knees were grimed with mud and
elbows were blackened. The scrimmages were the tightest and neatest ever
watched, and neither scrum could screw the other a foot. At last the
shrill whistle of the referee proclaimed the end of an immortal contest.
There were cheers for the victors by the vanquished, by the vanquished
for their conquerors. The spectators melted away into the gathering mist
and rain, a flotsam of black umbrellas. In a few moments the
school-ground was desolate and silent. Michael, as he looked at the
grass ploughed into mud by the severe struggle, thought what superb
heroes were in his School team; and just as he was going home, content,
he saw a blazer left on a post. It was Jackson's, and Michael,
palpitating with the honour, ran as fast as he could to the
changing-room through the echoing cloister beneath the school.

"I say, Jackson, you left this on the ground," he said shyly.

Jackson looked up from a conversation with the Dulfo