Back Aa

Cock-House at Fellsgarth

Close

<h3>Chapter Thirteen.</h3> <h4>Corder to the Front.</h4> The morning of the return match with Rendlesham was damp and muggy, and so assorted well with the spirits of Fellsgarth generally. The juniors of course were cheerful—everything came in the day’s work for them—but among the seniors on either side gloom prevailed. Even Ranger, the lighthearted, was snappish, as his fag discovered; and Denton, the amiable, hoped he would not, for his temper’s sake, meet too many Moderns between morning and evening. The captain, though he kept up his usual show of serenity, was evidently worried. But he had no notion of giving in. No! If the School was to be thrashed let them take their thrashing like men, and not whine about like the “other boys.” “After all,” said he to Ranger, “we may not get glory, but we needn’t lose it. Only, for goodness’ sake, let us keep our rows to ourselves, and not talk about them out of doors.” “Right you are!” said his friend. “I wish I had your temper. The cads! And after the way you’ve treated them, too. Why, some of us thought you went out of your way to favour them.” The captain grunted, and began to throw his flannels into his bag. “What about Rollitt?” he asked. “No go. He’s gone off for a day’s fishing.” The captain whistled dismally. “Then we must play a man short. There’s no one else worth putting in. It’s like marching to one’s execution,” he said; “I wish it was all over. But it’s only just beginning.” The Moderns were gloomy too. They had taken their course, and they must stand by it now. When they came to reflect, it was not a particularly glorious one, nor did it seem to promise much by way of compensation. They were done out of football for the rest of the term; they were reduced to a faction in Fellsgarth, and what was worse, they were secretly doubtful whether they were quite as much in the right as they tried to persuade themselves. They had taken their course, however, and must go on. “I suppose none of our side will go on the omnibus,” said Brinkman. “Why not?” said Clapperton. “It will do them good to have spectators. I shall go; not that I care about it, but just to assert my rights.” “Hurrah for self-sacrifice!” said Fullerton. “If your principles will allow you to take chicken and tongue sandwiches with you, I’ll go too.” “It’s ten to one they’ll try to prevent our going,” said Dangle; “I hope they’ll try.” When the two coaches drove up to carry the fifteen and the prefects and other privileged boys to the scene of conflict, a good deal of surprise was evinced at the appearance of Clapperton, Brinkman, Dangle, and Fullerton, in ordinary costume, and without bags, ready to accompany the party. Contrary to their expectations and hopes, no protest was made, and, as far as the Classic seniors were concerned, no notice was vouchsafed them. This was annoying, particularly as the juniors present took care to call attention to their presence. “Look at ’em,” cried Wally; “don’t they look clever?” “Kicked out of the team—serve ’em right!” shouted Ashby. “Who’s kicked out?” retorted the Modern fags. “It would take better chaps than you to kick them out.” “Don’t you wish you could kick them in? They know better,” retorted Percy and Co. Amid such embarrassing comments, the four Modern heroes mounted to their places. The cheers of their adherents hardly made up for the chilly welcome of their travelling companions. Yorke, seeing Clapperton looking for a place, politely moved up to make room, and then turned his back and talked to Ranger. The other three were similarly cut off, Dangle finding himself in between Fisher major and Denton, who talked across him. Brinkman, on another coach, was tucked in among some rowdy Classic middle-boys who were discussing the “strike” very vigorously among themselves. As for Fullerton, he was lucky enough to get the seat beside the driver, where, at any rate, he could count on one sympathetic soul into whose ears to pour his occasional words of wisdom. Just as the first coach was starting, a shout was heard from across the Green, and Corder, the Modern boy whose services were declined on the previous occasion, equipped in an ulster and with his bag in his hand, appeared signalling for the cortège to wait. “Well! what is it?” demanded Dangle. “Is Yorke there? Yorke, can I play to-day?” “No, you can’t,” said Dangle in a menacing undertone. “None of us are playing; you know that.” “I don’t see why I mayn’t play if I have the chance,” said Corder. “I awfully want to play in the fifteen.” “We’re a man short,” said Yorke. “You can play, Corder.” “If you dare to come and play,” said Dangle, still in a whisper, “you’ll find it so precious hot for yourself afterwards that you’ll be sorry for it.” “Yorke says I may play,” persisted Corder; “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.” “Cad! traitor! blackleg!” yelled Percy and Co., as they saw their man mount the coach. “Ha, ha! got one man among you who isn’t a coward and a sneak, and—and a howling kid!” retorted Wally. “Gee up!” Whereat the whips cracked and the happy party drove off. Corder was one of those obtuse youths who can never take in more than one idea at a time. His present idea was football. He had come up this term with a consuming ambition to get into the fifteen, and had played hard and desperately to secure his end. Last week, when Brinkman was obliged to retire, he thought his chance was come, and great was his mortification when he found that his nomination was not accepted by the captain. Still he didn’t despair. When he saw the vacancies caused in the team by the defection of the Moderns, his hopes rose again; but once more they were dashed by the captain’s announcement of a fifteen made up wholly of Classics. To-day he had not had the heart to come out and see the coaches start, and was moping in his own room, when some one brought in word that Rollitt was not going to play after all, and that the team was setting out a man short. Whereupon Corder dashed into his ulster, flung his flannels into his bag, and tore out of his house just in time to secure for himself the long-coveted honour, and find himself in the glorious position of “playing for the School.” How was such a fellow likely to trouble his head about strikes, and protests, and organised desertion? Fortunately for the comfort of his journey, he had to pack himself away on the floor between the feet of Ridgway and another of the team, who, if they kicked him at all, only did it by accident or by way of encouragement, and not as Dangle or Brinkman might have done, in spite. The rain was coming down pretty steadily by the time the party got to their destination, and the gloom on the brows of the four Modern prefects deepened as they looked up and speculated on the delights of standing for an hour on the wet grass watching their rivals play. “Dangle,” said Clapperton, “we must stop that cad Corder’s playing at all cost. It will upset everything. Come and talk to him.” But Corder, perhaps with an inkling of what was in store for him, had entrenched himself behind a number of other players, and in close proximity to Ranger, who had evidently told himself off to see that the last recruit of the fifteen was not tampered with. The signals of the two seniors were studiously not observed, and when Dangle, getting desperate, said— “Corder, half a minute; Clapperton wants you.” Ranger interposed with— “Come on, you fellows, it’s time we got into our flannels,” and effectually checkmated the manoeuvre. “If he doesn’t get paid out for this,” growled Clapperton, “I’m precious mistaken.” “Yes; and the other fellows must see that he is. If this sort of thing spreads, we may as well cave in at once.” The Rendlesham fellows hovered about under shelter till the last moment, grumbling at the weather, the grass, and the dock. At length the Fellsgarth boys put in an appearance; sides were solemnly tossed for, and the order to “spread out” was given. “Hullo!” said one of the Rendlesham men as he passed Clapperton and Dangle, “why aren’t you playing? Afraid of the cold?” “No, we scratched because—” “Have you got that big man down who was so hot in the scrimmages? I forget his name. He’s not one of the delicate ones, I fancy.” “No more are we; we’re not playing because—” “Hullo! they’re waiting,” said the player, and went off, leaving the explanation still unfinished. One of the last to run out was Corder. “You young cad,” growled Clapperton as he passed; “take my advice and don’t play, unless—” “Come on, Corder—waiting,” shouted Yorke. Corder obeyed like lightning. The match began disastrously for Fellsgarth. Within five minutes of the kick-off, a run up by one of the Rendlesham quarter-backs carried the ball right into the School lines, and a touch-down resulted. On a fine day like last Saturday a goal would have been certain, but on the wet grass, the try did not come off. But five minutes later, a drop-kick from the middle of the field by the Rendlesham captain secured a magnificent goal for the home team. Clapperton sneered. “What I expected,” said he. “They’ll be lucky if they don’t lose a dozen.” Yorke, on the contrary, was cheering up. Bad as these opening ten minutes had been, he fancied his team was not going to do so badly after all. The new players were working like mad in the scrimmage. Ranger was as quick on his feet in the wet as in the dry; and Corder at half-back had been surprisingly steady. Before kicking off again he made one or two changes. He moved Ridgway, who was a heavy weight, up into the forwards. Corder, greatly to his delight, was entrusted with the goal, and Fisher major moved up to half-back. The forwards were ordered on no account to break loose, but if necessary to keep the ball among them till time was called. Then, with his well-known “On you go!” he lacked off. The ball was almost immediately locked up in a tight, fierce scrimmage. The boys took the captain’s advice with a vengeance, and held the ball among their feet doggedly, neither letting it through on their side, nor forcing it out on the side of the enemy. At length, however, it could be seen filtering out sideways, just where the captain was hovering outside the scrimmage. “Let it come!” he whispered. “Look out, Ranger!” Next moment the ball was under his arm, and before any one realised that the scrimmage was up, he was off with it and among the enemy’s half-backs. The half-backs knew Yorke of old, and closed upon him before he could double or get round them. “Pass!” shouted Ranger. It was beautifully done, while Yorke was falling and Ranger brushing past. The enemy’s half-backs were not in it with the fleet Fellsgarth runner, nor was their back; and to their own utter amazement, three minutes later the School placed to their credit an easy goal. Then did Clapperton and Dangle and Brinkman gnash their teeth till they ached, and Fullerton, standing near, had his gibe. “It was worth coming here in the rain to see that, wasn’t it?” The match was not yet over. The Rendlesham men, startled into attention by this unexpected rebuff, took care that such a misadventure should not happen again, and making all the use they could of their superior weight, bore down the scrimmages and forced the ball into the open. Once they carried it through with a splendid rush, and their captain picking it up under the very feet of the boys, ran it forward a few yards, and took a drop-kick which missed by only a few inches. A little later came Corder’s chance. He had lived all the term for this moment. If he was taken back to Fellsgarth on a shutter he would not care, so long as he did himself credit now. He had a clear field to start with, and was well out of touch before the advance guard of the enemy bore down on him. Then it was a sight to see him wriggle and dodge, and twist and turn in and out among them, threading them like a needle through a string of beads, and slipping through their hands like an eel. “Well played indeed, Corder!” cried Yorke. Oh, what music was in the sound! What would he not dare now! On he went, now diving under an arm, now staggering round a leg; now jumping like a kangaroo against an opponent. The very sight of his evolutions seemed to demoralise the Rendlesham men. They floundered and slid on the slippery grass, and made wild grabs without ever reaching him. It was really too ridiculous to be eluded by a raw hand like this—and yet he eluded them. Half-way down the field he ran with a roar of applause at his back, and only a handful of the enemy left ahead. How splendid if he could only pass them, and make his record with a run from one goal to the other! Alas! a swoop from behind greeted the proud thought; two hands clawed at his shoulders, and from his shoulders slipped to his waist, and from his waist slid down to his ankles, where for a moment they held, and sent the runner tripping over on his nose in the mud, with the ball spinning away a yard ahead. It was all up. No! Fisher was on the spot, and at Fisher’s heels Ridgway. The Rendlesham backs flung themselves in the way, but only to divert, not to stop their career. When Corder picked himself up and rubbed the mud out of his eyes, the first thing he saw was Ridgway sitting behind the enemy’s line with the ball comfortably resting on his knee! It was another for the School—perhaps a goal. Alas! on that ground the long side-kick was too much even for Yorke. It shot wide, and Rendlesham breathed again. But the long and short of it was that the match was a tie; a goal and a try to each side; and that to Corder belonged the credit of a big hand in the lesser point. “Awfully well run, Corder,” said the captain, as, time having been called, the two walked off the field together. “You must play for us again.” After that, who should say life was not worth living? The very weather seemed to change for Corder. The sun came out, flowers sprang up at his feet, birds started singing in the trees overhead. What a letter he would have to write home to-morrow! The captain’s pat on the back sent a glow all through him. Who wouldn’t be a Fellsgarth chap after all? It scarcely damped his joy to perceive that neither Clapperton, Dangle, nor Brinkman shared in the general congratulations, but looked more black and threatening than ever as he passed. Pooh! what did he care for that! How he enjoyed the glorious Rendlesham high tea, and the drive home in the rain with everybody talking and laughing and rejoicing, singing songs and shouting war-cries! He was quite sorry when it came to an end, and he had to dismount and go over alone to his own house. He could hear the shouts and huzzas of the Classics across the Green as Wakefield’s turned out in a body to welcome their men. No one at Forder’s turned out to welcome him. The four prefects themselves had not even waited for him. For the first time that day Corder felt himself wishing he had a little sympathy in his jubilation. It was dull, when everybody over on the other side was shouting himself hoarse, to hear not a “cheep” of congratulation from his own fellows. However, it didn’t matter much. He went to his room and changed, and hoped his messmate Wilson would not be long in coming for supper and a gossip. Wilson came presently, but his face was glum and his manner frigid. “Oh, here you are, old chap; I’m peckish. Did you hear about the match, we—” “Shut up,” said Wilson; “you’re a cad. I don’t want to talk to you.” Corder put down his knife and fork, and looked up in amazement. This from Wilson! He knew Clapperton was sore about it, but Wilson— He went on eating while thinking it out, and Wilson ate too in silence, and then rose to go. “Are you not going to prepare to-night?” “Yes, in Dangle’s room.” And Corder was left alone. This was too bad of Wilson—to-night of all nights. He would go and look up Selby. Selby, he knew, would be interested in the day’s news, for had they not practised drop-kicks together for an hour a day all this term? Selby was in, but not at all glad to see him. “Are you busy, old man?” asked Corder. “I don’t want you here,” said Selby. “Why, what’s the row?” “Row? You’re a sneak, that’s the row. Cut!” Surely Selby must be out of sorts to talk like that. Corder stood in the door for a moment, on the off-chance that his friend might be joking. But no; Selby turned his back and began to read a book. This was getting monotonous. Corder returned to his study to think it out a little more. His fag, Cash, was there looking for a paper. “Hullo, youngster! that you? We didn’t get beaten after all, to-day, I suppose you heard.” Cash’s reply was laconic, to say the least of it. He turned round and put out his tongue. “None of your cheek, I say,” said Corder, “or I’ll—” “How dare you speak to me!” said the junior; “you’re a cad—I’m not going to fag for a cad.” And he vanished. Corder went to bed that night sorely perplexed. And his perplexity was not relieved when he rose next morning and found a paper on his table with the following genial notice:— “Any boy in Forder’s found speaking to Corder the sneak will be cut by the house. By Order.” <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2