These again play
in several bodies. There is young Brooke and the bull-dogs. Mark them
well. They are the "fighting brigade," the "die-hards," larking about
at leap-frog to keep themselves warm, and playing tricks on one another.
And on each side of old Brooke, who is now standing in the middle of
the ground and just going to kick off, you see a separate wing of
players-up, each with a boy of acknowledged prowess to look to--here
Warner, and there Hedge; but over all is old Brooke, absolute as he
of Russia, but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping
subjects, a true football king. His face is earnest and careful as he
glances a last time over his array, but full of pluck and hope--the sort
of look I hope to see in my general when I go out to fight.
The School side is not organized in the same way. The goal-keepers
are all in lumps, anyhow and nohow; you can't distinguish between the
players-up and the boys in quarters, and there is divided leadership.
But with such odds in strength and weight it must take more than that to
hinder them from winning; and so their leaders seem to think, for they
let the players-up manage themselves.
But now look! there is a slight move forward of the School-house wings,
a shout of "Are you ready?" and loud affirmative reply. Old Brooke takes
half a dozen quick steps, and away goes the ball spinning towards the
School goal, seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no
point above twelve or fifteen feet high, a model kick-off; and the
School-house cheer and rush on.
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