Tom Brown at Rugby Part 16

"THEY TRUST TO OUR HONOR."

To-day, however, being the School-house match, none of the School-house praepostors stay by the door to watch for truants of their side; there is _carte blanche_[38] to the School-house f.a.gs to go where they like: "They trust to our honor," as East proudly informs Tom; "they know very well that no School-house boy would cut the match.[39] If he did, we'd very soon cut him,[40] I can tell you."

[38] #Carte blanche#: literally, a white card to be filled up as one pleases; hence, unlimited power.

[39] #Cut the match#: refuse to be present at the game.

[40] #Cut him#: drop his society.

The master of the week being short-sighted, and the praepostors of the week small, and not well up to their work, the lower-school boys employ the ten minutes which elapse before their names are called, in pelting one another vigorously with acorns, which fly about in all directions. The small praepostors dash in every now and then, and generally chastise some quiet, timid boy, who is equally afraid of acorns and canes, while the princ.i.p.al performers get dexterously out of the way; and so calling-over rolls on somehow, much like the big world, punishments lighting on wrong shoulders, and matters going generally in a queer, cross-grained way, but the end coming somehow, which is after all the great point. And now the master of the week has finished, and locked up the Big School; and the praepostors of the week come out, sweeping the last remnant of the School f.a.gs,--who had been loafing about the corners, by the fives' court, in hopes of a chance of bolting before them, into the close.

"Hold the punt-about!" "To the goals!" are the cries, and all stray b.a.l.l.s are impounded[41] by the authorities; and the whole ma.s.s of boys move up toward the two goals, dividing as they go into three bodies.

That little band on the left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys, Tom amongst them, who are making for the goal under the School-house wall, are the School-house boys who are not to play-up, and have to stay in goal. The larger body moving to the island goal are the School boys in a like predicament. The great ma.s.s in the middle are the players-up, both sides mingled together; they are hanging their jackets, and all who mean real work, their hats, waistcoats, neck-handkerchiefs, and braces,[42] on the railings round the small trees; and there they go by twos and threes up to their respective grounds. There is none of the color and tastiness of get up, you will perceive, which lends such a life to the present game at Rugby, making the dullest and worst fought match a pretty sight. Now, each house has its own uniform of cap and jersey, of some lively color; but at the time we are speaking of, plush caps had not yet come in, or uniforms of any sort, except the School-house white trousers, which are abominably cold to-day; let us get to work, bare-headed and girded with our plain leather strap,--but we mean business, gentlemen.

[41] #Impounded#: locked up.

[42] #Braces#: suspenders.

OLD BROOKE'S GENERALSHIP.

And now that the two sides have fairly sundered, and each occupies its own ground, and we get a good look at them, what absurdity is this?

You don't mean to say that those fifty or sixty boys, in white trousers, many of them quite small, are going to play that huge ma.s.s opposite? Indeed I do, gentlemen; they're going to try, at any rate, and won't make such a bad fight of it either, mark my word: for hasn't old Brooke won the toss, with his lucky half-penny, and got choice of goals and kick-off? The new ball you may see lie there quite by itself, in the middle, pointing toward the School or island goal; in another minute it will be well on its way there. Use that minute in remarking how the School-house side is drilled. You will see, in the first place, that the sixth form boy who has charge of goal has spread his force (the goal-keepers) so as to occupy the whole s.p.a.ce behind the goal-posts at distances of about five yards apart; a safe and well-kept goal is the foundation of all good play. Old Brooke is talking to the captain of quarters; and now he moves away. See how that youngster spreads his men (the light brigade) carefully over the ground, half-way between their own goal and the body of their own players-up (the heavy brigade). 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[43] 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,[44]

but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping subjects, a true foot-ball 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.

[43] #Larking#: frolicking.

[44] #He of Russia#: the Czar.

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.

A SCRUMMAGE.

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 toward 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; the ball is returned, and they meet it and drive it back amongst the ma.s.ses of the School already in motion.

Then the two sides close, and you can see nothing for minutes but a swaying crowd of boys, at one point violently agitated. That is where the ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, and the glory and the hard knocks to be got. You hear the dull thud of the ball, and the shouts of "Off your side," "Down with him," "Put him over,"

"Bravo." This is what we call "a scrummage," gentlemen, and the first scrummage in a School-house match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus.[45]

[45] #In the consulship of Plancus#: meaning, perhaps, at the time when "old Brooke" was leader.

But see! it has broken; the ball is driven out on the School-house side, and a rush of the School carries it past the School-house players-up. "Look out in quarters," Brooke's and twenty other voices ring out. No need to call, though; the School-house captain of quarters has caught it on the bound, dodges the foremost School-boys who are heading the rush, and sends it back with a good drop-kick well into the enemy's country. And then follows rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrummage, the ball now driven through into the School-house quarters, and now into the School goal; for the School-house have not lost the advantage which the kick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and are slightly "penning" their adversaries. You say you don't see much in it all; nothing but a struggling ma.s.s of boys, and a leathern ball, which seems to excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does a bull. My dear sir, a battle would look much the same to you, except that the boys would be men, and the b.a.l.l.s iron; but a battle would be worth your looking at, for all that, and so is a foot-ball match. You can't be expected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns by which a game is lost and won; it takes an old player to do that, but the broad philosophy of foot-ball you can understand if you will. Come along with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together.

HOW TO GO IN.

The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and they close rapidly around it in a scrummage; it must be driven through now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other.

Look how differently the boys face it! Here come two of the bull-dogs, bursting through the outsiders; in they go, straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side.

That is what they mean to do. My sons, my sons! you are too hot; you have gone past the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and get round and back again to your own side before you can be of any further use. Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, but he keeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the ball, and driving it furiously when he gets the chance. Take a leaf out of his book, you young chargers. Here comes Speedicut and Flashman, the School-house bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up to young Brooke, after locking up, by the School-house fire, with "Old fellow, wasn't that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees!" But he knows you and so do we.

You don't really want to drive that ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt for the glory of the School-house--but to make us think that's what you want--a vastly different thing; and fellows of your sort will never go through more than the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We respect boys who keep out of it, and don't sham going in; but you--we had rather not say what we think of you.

Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them--they are most useful players, the dodgers; who seize on the ball the moment it rolls out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across to the opposite goal; they seldom go into the scrummage, but must have more coolness than the chargers; as endless as are boys'

characters, so are their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at foot-ball.

YOUNG BROOKE'S RUSH.

Three quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight and numbers beginning to tell. Yard by yard the School-house have been driven back, contesting every inch of ground. The bull-dogs are the color of mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who has a marvellous knack of keeping his legs. The School-house are being penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal, under the Doctor's wall. The Doctor and some of his family are there looking on, and seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the School-house. We get a minute's breathing time before old Brooke kicks out, and he gives the word to play strongly for touch, by the three trees. Away goes the ball, and the bull-dogs after it, and in another minute there is a shout of "In touch," "Our ball."

Now's your time, old Brooke, while your men are still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two sides form in deep lines opposite one another; he must strike it straight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but young Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up further, where the opposite line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his brother. Hurra! that rush has taken it right through the School line, and away past the three trees, far into their quarters, and young Brooke and the bull-dogs are close upon it. The School leaders rush back, shouting "Look out in goal!" and strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after the fleetest foot in Rugby. There they go straight for the School goal-posts, quarters scattering before them.

One after another the bull-dogs go down, but young Brooke holds on.

"He is down," No! a long stagger, but the danger is past; that was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And now he is close to the School goal, the ball not three yards before him. There is a hurried rush of the School f.a.gs to the spot, but no one throws himself on the ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has touched it right under the School goal-post.

The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco[46] to the wretched f.a.gs nearest at hand; they may well be angry, for it is all Lombard Street[47] to a China orange[48] that the School-house kick a goal with the ball touched in such a good place. Old Brooke, of course, will kick it out, but who shall catch and place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes, sauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish in Rugby; if he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just pick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning a hair. But it is a moment when the boldest charger's heart beats quick. Old Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the School back; he will not kick out till they are all in goal, behind the posts; they are all edging forward, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at Crab Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to catch the ball. If they can reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over; and with one and the same rush they will carry it right away to the School-house goal. Fond[49] hope! it is kicked out and caught beautifully. Crab strikes his heel into the ground, to mark the spot where the ball was caught, beyond which the School line may not advance; but there they stand, five deep, ready to rush the moment the ball touches the ground. Take plenty of room!

don't give the rush a chance of reaching you! place it true and steady! Trust Crab Jones--he has made a small hole with his heel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one knee, with his eye on old Brooke. "Now!" Crab places the ball at the word, old Brooke kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the School rush forward.

[46] #Toco#: probably kicks and cuffs.

[47] #Lombard Street#: the centre of the banking business in London.

[48] #China orange#: a sweet orange.

[49] Fond: here, foolish.

A GOAL.

Then a moment's pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball.

There it flies, straight between the two posts, some five feet above the cross-bar, an unquestioned goal; and a shout of real genuine joy rings out from the School-house players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over the close from the goal-keepers under the Doctor's wall.

A goal in the first hour--such a thing hasn't been done in the School-house match these five years.

"Over!" is the cry; the two sides change goals, and the School-house goal-keepers come threading their way across through the ma.s.ses of the School; the most openly triumphant of them, amongst whom is Tom, a School-house boy of two hours' standing, getting their ears boxed in the transit. 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[50] 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 G.o.ddess Thirst, like the English and French by the streams in the Pyrenees.[51] 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 st.i.tch in the side, and no more honest play; that's what comes of those bottles.

[50] #Itinerant#: wandering.

[51] #Pyrenees#: an allusion to the French and English wars in Spain.

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. He, himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves until now, will lead the charges.

"ARE YOU READY?"

"Are you ready?" "Yes." And away comes the ball kicked high in the air, to give the School time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here they are amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you School-house boys, and charge them home. Now is the time to show what mettle is in you--and there shall be a warm seat by the hall fire, and honor to-night for him who does his duty in the next half-hour. And they are well met. Again and again the cloud of their players-up gathers before our goal, and comes threatening on, and Warner or Hedge, with young Brooke and the relics of the bull-dogs, break through and carry the ball back; and old Brooke ranges the field like Job's war-horse; the thickest scrummage parts asunder before his rush, like the waves before a clipper's bows; his cheery voice rings over the field, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it rolls dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men have seized it, and sent it away towards the sides with the unerring drop-kick.

This is worth living for; the whole sum of school-boy existence gathered up into one straining, struggling half-hour, a half-hour worth a year of common life.

EAST'S CHARGE.