Tom indeed is excited beyond measure, and it is all the
sixth-form boy, kindest and safest of goal-keepers, has been able to do,
to keep him from rushing out whenever the ball has been near their
goal. So he holds him by his side, and instructs him in the science of
touching.
At this moment Griffith, the itinerant vender of oranges from Hill
Morton, enters the close with his heavy baskets. There is a rush of
small boys upon the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling
together, subdued by the great goddess Thirst, like the English and
French by the streams in the Pyrenees. The leaders are past oranges and
apples, but some of them visit their coats, and apply innocent-looking
ginger-beer bottles to their mouths. It is no ginger-beer though, I
fear, and will do you no good. One short mad rush, and then a stitch in
the side, and no more honest play. That's what comes of those bottles.
But now Griffith's baskets are empty, the ball is placed again midway,
and the School are going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their
lumber into goal, and rated the rest soundly, and one hundred and twenty
picked players-up are there, bent on retrieving the game. They are to
keep the ball in front of the School-house goal, and then to drive it in
by sheer strength and weight. They mean heavy play and no mistake, and
so old Brooke sees, and places Crab Jones in quarters just before the
goal, with four or five picked players who are to keep the ball away to
the sides, where a try at goal, if obtained, will be less dangerous than
in front.
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