CHAPTER THREE.
GONE! It would be difficult to picture the horror and dismay which followed the terrible termination to the football match described in our last chapter.
For a second or two every one stood where he was, as if rooted to the ground.

Then with an exclamation of horror Mr Freshfield bounded to the side of the prostrate boy.
"Stand back and give him air!" cried the master, as the school closed round and gazed with looks of terror on the form of their companion.

He lay with one arm above his head just as he had fallen.

His cap lay a yard or two off where he had tossed it before making his final charge.
His eyes were closed, and the deathly pallor of his face was unmoved by even a quiver of life.
"He's dead!" gasped Farfield.
Mr Freshfield, who had been hastily loosening Forrester's collar, and had rested his hand for an instant on his heart, looked up with a face almost as white as the boy's and said-- "Go for the doctor!--and some water." Half a dozen boys started--thankful to do anything.

Before the ring could close up again the ungainly form of Jeffreys, still panting from his run, elbowed his way to the front.