Mr Frampton, as he walked across from the small boys' match, was surprised as well as delighted to notice the business-like way in which the best players on either side were settling down to their work.

There was Farfield, flushed and dogged, leading on his forwards, and always on the ball.
There was Scarfe, light and dodgy, ready for a run or a neat drop-kick from half-back.

There was Ranger and Phipps of the Fifth, backing one another up like another Nisus and Euryalus.

There was young Forrester, merry and plucky, saving his goal more than once by a prompt touch-down.
There, even, was the elephantine Jeffreys, snorting and pounding in the thick of the fray, feeling his feet under him, and doing his clumsy best to fight the battle of his side.
The game went hard against the School, despite their determined rallies and gallant sorties.

Young Forrester in goal had more than one man's share of work; and Scarfe's drops from the rear of the Sixth scrimmage flew near and still nearer the enemy's goal.
Once, just before half-time, he had what seemed a safe chance, but at the critical moment Jeffreys' ungainly bulk interposed, and received on his chest the ball which would certainly have carried victory to his side.
"Clumsy lout!" roared Farfield; "didn't I tell you to stand out of the way and not go near the ball--you idiot! Go and play back, do." Jeffreys turned on him darkly.
"You think I did it on purpose," said he.