TOM BROWN'S
"Over!" is the cry; the two sides change goals, and the School-house goal-keepers come threading their way across through the masses of the School; the most openly triumphant of them, among 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 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. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves till now, will lead the charges.
"Are you ready?" "Yes." And away comes the ball kicked
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