"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.