The Hill Part 14

"Yes," said Lovell.

"Clever chap," said the Caterpillar, reflectively; "but one is reminded that a stream can't rise higher than its source. Not mine that--the governor's! Caesar is facing the chaff with a grin."

The game began again. But soon it became evident that Scaife had lost, not only his temper, but his head. He rushed here and there with so little judgment that the odds amongst the sporting fellows went to six to four against the Manor. At the beginning of the game they were six to four the other way. And, inevitably, Scaife's wild and furious efforts unbalanced Desmond's play. Both boys were out of their proper places to the confusion of the rest of the team. Within half an hour Damer's had scored two bases to nothing.

The Caterpillar distributed halves of lemons. Lawrence went up to Scaife. The captain of the Torpids was standing apart, not far from Desmond, who was sucking a lemon with a puzzled expression. Gallant, sweet-tempered, and always hopeful, Caesar could not understand his friend's pa.s.sion of rage and resentment. With the tact of his race, however, he held aloof, smiling feebly, because he had sworn to himself not to frown. Had he looked to his right, he would have seen John, also sucking a lemon, but understudying his idol's nonchalant att.i.tude and smile. John was sensible of an overpowering desire to fling himself upon the ground and howl. Instead he sucked his lemon, stared at Desmond, and smiled--valiantly.

"Scaife," said Lawrence, gravely, "you're not playing the game."

Scaife scowled. "I only know I've half killed myself," he muttered.

Lawrence continued in the same steady voice, "Yes; because you missed an easy base which has happened to me and every other player scores of times. Come here, Desmond."

Desmond joined them. Lawrence's face brightened when he saw hopeful eyes and a gallant smile.

"You don't despair?"

"We'll knock 'em into smithereens yet."

"That's the Harrow spirit, but temper your determination to win with a little common sense. You've overdone it, both of you. Take my tip: they'll play up like blazes. Defend your own base; and then, when they're spent, trample on 'em."

"Thank you," said Desmond.

Scaife nodded sulkily.

None the less he had too great respect for Lawrence's ability and experience as a captain to disregard his advice. After the kick-off, Damer's _did_ play up, and the Manor had to defend its base against sustained and fierce attack. Again and again a third base was almost kicked, again and again superior weight prevailed in the scrimmages.

Within ten minutes Damer's were gasping and weary. And then, the ball was forced out of the scrimmage and kicked to the top side, Desmond's place in the field. Comparatively fresh, seeing the glorious opportunity, grasping it, hugging it, Caesar swooped on the ball. He had the heels of any boy on the opposite side. Down the field he sped, faster and faster, amid the roars of the School, roars which came to his ears like the deep booming of breakers upon a lee sh.o.r.e. To many of those watching him, the sight of that graceful figure, that s.h.i.+ning, ardent face, revealing the promise which youth and beauty always offer to a delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. Damer turned to the Head of his house.

"And Desmond ought to be one of _us_," he groaned.

And now Caesar had pa.s.sed all forwards. If he keeps his wits a base is certain. The full back alone lies between him and triumph. But this is the moment, the psychological moment, when one tiny mistake will prove irrevocable. The Head of Damer's whispers as much to Damer, who smiles sadly.

"His father's son will not blunder now," he replies.

Nor does he. The mistake--for mistake there must be on one side or t'other--is made by Damer's back. As the ball rolls halfway between them, the back hesitates and falters.

One base to two--and eighteen minutes to play!

The second base was kicked by Scaife five minutes later.

By this time the School knew that they were looking on at a c.o.c.k-house match, not a semi-final. It was the wealth of Dives against the widow's mite that the winner of this match would defeat easily either of the two remaining houses. And not a man or boy on the ground could name with any conviction the better eleven. The betting languished at evens.

Moreover, both sides were playing "canny," risking nothing, nursing their energies for the last furious five minutes. Damer began to fidget; than he dropped out of the front rank of spectators. He couldn't stand still to see his boys win--or lose. He paced up and down behind the f.a.gs, who winked at each other.

"Damer's got the needle," they whispered.

Dumbleton, however, stood still; a graven image of High Life below Stairs.

"What do you think, Dumber?" asked Fluff.

"I think, my lord," replied Dumber, solemnly, "that every minute improves our chance, but if it goes on _much_ longer," he added phlegmatically, "I shall fall down dead. My 'eart's weak, my lord."

This was an ancient joke delivered by Dumber as if it were brand-new, and received by the f.a.gs in a like spirit.

"Bless you, you've got no heart, Dumber. It's turned into tummy long ago," or, in scathing accents, "It's not your heart that's out of whack, Dumber, but your blithering old headpiece. What a pity you can't buy a new one!" and so on and so forth.

Very soon, however, this chaff ceased. Excitement began to shake the spectators. They felt it up and down their spinal columns; it formed itself into lumps in their throats; it gave one or two cramp in the calves of their legs; it reddened many cheeks and whitened as many more.

The Caterpillar pulled out his watch.

"Three and a half minutes," he announced in a voice which fell like the crack of doom upon the silent crowd. If they could have cheered or chaffed! But the absolute equality of the last desperate struggle prevented any demonstration. The ball was worried through a scrimmage, escaped to the right, slid out to the left, only to be returned whence it came. It seemed as if both sides were unable to kick it, and when kicked it seemed to refuse to move as if weighted by the ever-increasing burden of suspense....

"Now--now's your chance!" yelled the Manorites. To their flaming senses the ball appeared to be lying, a huge blurred sphere, upon the muddy gra.s.s; and the Elevens were stupidly staring at it. The Saints be praised! Some fellow can move. Who is it? The players, big and little, are so daubed with mud from head to foot as to be unrecognizable.

Ah-h-h! It's young Verney.

"Good kid! Well played--I say, well played, well pla-a-a-a-yed!"

Our John has, it seems, distinguished himself. He has charged valiantly into the captain of Damer's at the moment when that ill.u.s.trious chief is about to kick the ball to a trusted lieutenant on the left. He succeeds in kicking the ball into John's face. John goes over backwards; but the ball falls just in front of the Duffer.

"Kick it, Duffer--kick it, you old a.s.s!"

The Duffer kicks it most accurately, kicks it well out to the top side.

Now, can Desmond repeat his amazing performance? Yes--No--he can't. The conditions are no longer the same. Half a dozen fellows are between him and the Damer base.

Alas! The Manor is about to receive a second object-lesson upon the fatuity of trusting to individuals. Confident in Caesar's ability to take the ball at least within kicking distance of the base, they have rushed forward, leaving unguarded their own citadel. Caesar, going too fast, misjudges the distance between himself and the back. A second later the ball is well on its way to the Manor's base. The back awaits it, coolly enough; knowing that Damer's forwards are offside. Then he kicks the sodden, slippery ball--hard. An exclamation of horror bursts from the Manorites. Their back has kicked the ball straight into the hands of the Damerite captain, the steadiest player on the ground.

"_Yards!_"

The chief collects himself for a decisive effort, and then despatches the ball straight and true for the target.

It pa.s.sed between the posts within forty-five seconds of time.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] The "barmaid" collar is the double collar, at that time just coming into fas.h.i.+on.

[15] "Chaw," short for Chawbacon.

[16] "Tique," ab. for arithmetic. "Tique-beaks" are mathematical masters.

[17] To "sky," _i.e._ to charge and overthrow.

[18] In the Harrow game a boy may turn and kick the ball into the hands of one of his own side. The boy who catches it calls "Yards!" and, the opposite side withdrawing three yards, the catcher is allowed a free kick.