. 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 a 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 further, where the opposite line is weak. Old
Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his
brother. Hurra! 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 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-post.

The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco[46] to the
wretched fags nearest at hand; they may well be angry, for it is all
Lombard Street[47] to a China orange[48] 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