ed 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 position in the
proximity of the enemy's goal, when the ball suddenly, and by one of
those mysterious chances of battle, burst clear of the scrimmage and
darted straight to where Jeffreys stood.

"Pick it up and run--like mad!" shouted Farfield.

With a sudden swoop which astonished his beholders the Cad pounced on
the ball and started to run in the direction of the ill-protected goal
of the School.

Till they saw him in motion with an almost clear field ahead, no one had
had any conception how powerfully he was built or how fast he could run.
The School, rash and sanguine of victory, had pressed to the front,
leaving scarcely half a dozen behind to guard their rear.

Three of these Jeffreys had passed before the School was well aware what
he was doing. Then a shout of consternation arose, mingled with the
frantic cheers of the Sixth.

"Collar him! Have him over! Stop him there! Look out in goal!"

But Jeffreys was past stopping. Like a cavalry charger who dashes on to
the guns heedless of everything, and for the time being gone mad, so the
Bolsover Cad, with the shouts behind him and the enemy's goal in front,
saw and heard nothing else. The two men who stepped out at him were
brushed aside like reeds before a boat's keel; and with half the field
before him only one enemy remained between him and victory.

That enemy was young Forrester! There was something almost terrible in
the furious career of the big boy as he bore down on the fated goal.
Those behind ceased to pursue, and watched the result in bre