‘Might I observe, sir—’
‘You may observe whatever you like,’ said the referee kindly. ‘Twenty-five.’
‘The rules say—’
‘I have given my decision. Twenty-_five_!’ A spot of red appeared on the official cheek. The referee, who had been heckled since the kick-off, was beginning to be annoyed.
‘The ball went behind without bouncing, and the rules say—’
‘Twenty-FIVE!!’ shouted the referee. ‘I am perfectly well aware what the rules say.’ And he blew his whistle with an air of finality. The secretary of the Bargees’ F.C. subsided reluctantly, and the game was restarted.
The Bargees’ match was a curious institution. Their real name was the Old Crockfordians. When, a few years before, the St Austin’s secretary had received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where their secretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows: ‘This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford. Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they’re certain to be decent fellows.’ And he arranged the fixture. It then transpired that Old Crockford was a village, and, from the appearance of the team on the day of battle, the Old Crockfordians seemed to be composed exclusively of the riff-raff of same. They wore green shirts with a bright yellow leopard over the heart, and C.F.C. woven in large letters about the chest. One or two of the outsides played in caps, and the team to a man criticized the referee’s decisions with point and pungency. Unluckily, the first year saw a weak team of Austinians rather badly beaten, with the result that it became a point of honour to wipe this off the slate before the fixture could be cut out of the card. The next year was also unlucky. The Bargees managed to score a penalty goal in the first half, and won on that. The match resulted in a draw in the following season, and by this time the thing had become an annual event.
Now, however, the School was getting some of its own back. The Bargees had brought down a player of some reputation from the North, and were as strong as ever in the scrum. But St Austin’s had a great team, and were carrying all before them. Charteris and Graham at half had the ball out to their centres in a way which made Merevale, who looked after the football of the School, feel that life was worth living. And when once it was out, things happened rapidly. MacArthur, the captain of the team, with Thomson as his fellow-centre, and Welch and Bannister on the wings, did what they liked with the Bargees’ three-quarters. All the School outsides had scored, even the back, who dropped a neat goal. The player from the North had scarcely touched the ball during the whole game, and altogether the Bargees were becoming restless and excited.
The kick-off from the twenty-five line which followed upon the small discussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinary circumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game original methods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow, and went away down the touch-line. He was almost through when he stumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass, someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent was muscular. He was swung off his feet, and the next moment the two came down together, Graham underneath. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder.
A doctor emerged from the crowd—there is always a doctor in a crowd—and made an examination.
‘Anything bad?’ asked the referee.
‘Collar-bone,’ said the doctor. ‘The usual, you know. Rather badly smashed. Nothing dangerous, of course. Be all right in a month or so. Stop his playing. Rather a pity. Much longer before half-time?’
‘No. I was just going to blow the whistle when this happened.’
The injured warrior was carried off, and the referee blew his whistle for half-time.
‘I say, Charteris,’ said MacArthur, ‘who the deuce am I to put half instead of Graham?’
‘Rogers used to play half in his childhood, I believe. But, I say, did you ever see such a scrag? Can’t you protest, or something?’
‘My dear chap, how can I? It’s on our own ground. These Bargee beasts are visitors, if you come to think of it. I’d like to wring the chap’s neck who did it. I didn’t spot who it was. Did you see?’
‘Rather. Their secretary. That man with the beard. I’ll get Prescott to mark him this half.’
Prescott was the hardest tackler in the School. He accepted the commission cheerfully, and promised to do his best by the bearded one.
Charteris certainly gave him every opportunity. When he threw the ball out of touch, he threw it neatly to the criminal with the beard, and Prescott, who stuck to him closer than a brother, had generally tackled him before he knew what had happened. After a time he began to grow thoughtful, and when there was a line-out went and stood among the three-quarters. In this way much of Charteris’s righteous retribution miscarried, but once or twice he had the pleasure and privilege of putting in a piece of tackling on his own account. The match ended with the enemy still intact, but considerably shaken. He was also rather annoyed. He spoke to Charteris on the subject as they were leaving the field.
‘I was watching you,’ he said,
‘That must have been nice for you,’ said Charteris.
‘You wait.’
‘Certainly. Any time you’re passing, I’m sure—’
‘You ain’t ‘eard the last of me yet.’
‘That’s something of a blow,’ said Charteris cheerfully, and they parted.
Charteris, having got into his blazer, ran after Welch and MacArthur, and walked back with them to the House. All three of them were at Merevale’s.
‘Poor old Tony,’ said MacArthur. ‘Where have they taken him to? The House?’
‘Yes,’ said Welch. ‘I say, Babe, you ought to scratch this match next year. Tell ‘em the card’s full up or something.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. One expects fairly rough play in this sort of game. After all, we tackle pretty hard ourselves. I know I always try and go my hardest. If the man happens to be brittle, that’s his lookout,’ concluded the
