The men of Rainhurst were undisguisedly perplexed. For the last two hours Harley fellows had been arriving at the school, not openly, but in mysterious driblets, looking about them as if in fear of being spotted and yet decidedly proud to be on view. Moreover, as each party had arrived they had been greeted by their predecessors with cordial hand-shakings as if by way of congratulation on their safe arrival.

Now they were all gathered together in one great concourse just inside the entrance to the school, whilst one amongst them, a strangely thin boy with tremendous spectacles, stood out from the crowd and from a position of vantage in the roadway was peering into the distance. Whenever one of the Harley Fifteen appeared in sight this boy turned to the waiting throng, lifted his hand in dignity above his head as if for silence, and in a loud clear voice announced the gentleman’s name, whereupon there followed a momentary silence until the player himself appeared at the gate, when he was greeted with tumultuous applause.

It was all exceedingly odd.

The First Fifteen were coming, too, not in the appointed brake from the station but just as the boys themselves had come, clandestinely and by various routes, some by train, and others by cycle or by trap. The captain of Rainhurst, who was watching it all with a frankly curious stare, had never seen the like.

As time passed, however, it became evident that there was still some further treat in store for those who were waiting at the gates. There was that in their watchful attitude that one may see in the vast crowd at any state procession that cheers its favourites as they pass, yet waits in tense expectancy, keeping its greatest outburst for the great one whom they have really come to see.

There became noticeable, too, an increased alertness in the manner of the boy who was making the announcements. He peered more frequently and rather more impatiently up and down the road. Sometimes he left his position to secure a better view from the other side of the way.

Clearly the arrival of someone of real importance to them was expected at any moment.

It came at last. The looker-out, who, though wholly self-appointed, seemed to be treated with a tolerant courtesy and some respect by his fellows, darted suddenly towards them and threw up his arm stiffly erect above his head, pointing the way to heaven.

The silence was immediate.

“They’re coming,” said he. “Look out, it’s Rouse!”

In the respectful hush that had fallen upon the crowd there could be heard distinctly a noise like the beating of a drum. Boys turned, one to the other, in surprise. There was a minute’s keen expectancy. At last solution came. Rouse hove into view, not as one might have expected a popular hero to have appeared, nobly upon the shoulders of his comrades, but hunched upon a bicycle, and the noise accompanying him was not the beating of a drum: it was the bumping of a punctured back tyre on the roadway. His long legs were driving the pedals with laborious care, and between the strokes his knees were rising under his armpits. He was flushed with exertion and suffering from acute self-consciousness, and in this manner he turned in at the gate and came unsteadily along the gravel path.

Now when Rouse had said that so soon as he was invited to process he lost all interest in events he had spoken truly. He was never more hopelessly uncomfortable than when he was the centre of admiration or the object of prolonged applause, and during the present term he had had more of this than he could manage. When he had first come into sight his mind had, moreover, been so concentrated upon the importance of making the turn at the gate without colliding with the wall that he did not properly understand what all the cheering was about. He found out quite suddenly, and in that moment, looking along the deep ranks of his applauding followers and realising suddenly that it was all for him and that he was once again the unwilling hero of the hour, he lost his nerve entirely, slowed to a snail’s pace and suddenly fell off.

He stood up, not knowing where to look or what to do to stop their cheering. Smythe came to his side and Rouse turned to him gratefully.

“I say, do tell them to shut up, will you?”

He was sorry to notice that Smythe brushed the point aside.

“Where on earth have you been?” he was demanding. “I thought you were coming by trap?”

Rouse considered the point absent-mindedly.

“I thought so once, too. It seems a long time ago. I can hardly remember the time when I wasn’t sitting on that bike.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. That has yet to be discovered. But when twenty minutes had gone by and there was still no trap we decided we’d got to do something about it. Every bicycle for hire in Harley had been booked up a week ago, so there was nothing for it but to try our luck at cottages, and at one I managed to borrow this.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Until the old man of the house had lifted me into the saddle and given me a lusty shove off down the hill I wasn’t at all sure that I could ride a bicycle, but once the thing was fairly under way I didn’t dare to fall off for fear I should never be able to get on again, so I just kept on pushing the pedals round, and until I got inside these gates I thought of nothing else but sticking on. It was all that cheering upset me.”

“Something upset you I could plainly see,” said Smythe. “I thought you’d ridden over a brick.”

Rouse turned with a haughty gesture and cast a contemplative eye upon the bicycle.

“It’s been making that bumping noise ever since I started. I don’t know whether there’s anything the matter with it.”

“It’s punctured,” said Smythe instructively.

“Is it? Quite likely. I’m no real judge of a bicycle, but I should think it’s got everything the matter with it that it could have, including mumps on the front tyre. Nick couldn’t borrow one at all, so he stopped a kid who passed us on the road and they’ve been taking turn and turn about ever since, one of them riding and the other balancing on one foot on the step. I’ve seen worse trick cyclists at a music hall. They’re both walking up the hill at present. The kid offered to walk all the way and let Nick come on, but Nick said: ‘No fear. We’ve both got to be at this match and they’ll wait for me, but they won’t wait for you.’”

He smiled reminiscently, then turned sharply on his heel. The cheering had broken out anew. A small boy eaten up with pride was wearily riding a bicycle into the school grounds, and as they watched, a tall fair-haired young man dropped off the step and began to walk somewhat stiffly through the crowd.

“That’s Nick,” said Smythe. “We’re all here now.”

Next moment another young man was at his elbow. A voice had interrupted them apologetically. They turned and saw that it was the Rainhurst captain, and with a slow whimsical smile Rouse held out his hand.

“I say, is this true? One of your chaps has just been telling me. Do you mean to say you’ve come here absolutely on your own? Has your footer been stopped? Don’t they know anything at all about it at the school?”

Rouse began to explain. Half-way through the other stopped him.

“Well, all I can say is that if you fellows have gone to all this sweat just to save this match being scratched then you deserve to win it—and,” he added thoughtfully, “I’m only sorry you won’t.”

Rouse laid a hand upon his arm.

“I wonder if you could show me where I could get a rub down? I don’t know whether you’ve ever ridden from Harley on a punctured bike, but I have—and only just.”

As he followed the other away down the gravel path he looked round at the record crowd that, the cheering over, was now lining up along the touch-lines. His eyes passed thoughtfully over those members of the home side who were already taking casual place kicks on the field, and then came back and settled in turn upon certain of his own team who were coming slowly towards him from the changing-room. And in those few moments a strange solemnity obsessed him. He found himself remembering all that this lean year had meant to Harley. This was their first school match, and it would be their only one. The season would stand alone in history, and it was all on his account. He wondered whatever they could see in him, or what sympathy he had aroused in them that could warrant such devotion to one man. He was suddenly conscious of the weight of responsibility that was his. He, who had meant the season to be so famous in the annals of the school, had been the sole cause of the miserable fiasco that it had become. And it seemed to him that if only the school side could play such a game to-day as would be worth the fellows having come to see, it might make some amends. As a team nothing out of the way could be expected of them. They were only a scratch Fifteen, and they had not yet had one single practice game together. No one could foretell their capability. But he was their captain, and it was possible that by setting the example he might get each man on the side to play the game of his life. In the eyes of the Head he was yesterday’s captain, and Christopher Woolf Roe was to-day’s.

Well, when the story of this one match came to be written it should, if he could by one day’s captaincy ordain it, stand out as the greatest in the school’s long history. That would be some slight consolation to all those who had missed the game that was so near their hearts throughout this miserable term.

He changed and came out into the open and found his team, and all the while he could not find a word to say to anyone. Yet as they stood waiting silently for him to lead them out, he turned to them with a sudden spontaneity.

“Look here, the fellows have come no end of a distance and some of them may not get back before roll-call, but it’s in our power to give them a game that’ll keep them talking till the end of the year and make them proud to have been at school this term instead of half ashamed. I want you to do it. This is the only chance we shall have. Let’s make this match worth having played in.”

He stopped abruptly. It suddenly occurred to him that he was talking heroics for perhaps the first time in his life. And so with a sudden awkward smile he turned and led the way out. No one spoke; but as they followed him out into the open the spirit that had prompted Rouse was stirring in every breast.

The moments passed. The teams were lining up. The whistle blew. Rouse stood in readiness behind his team, casting an affectionate eye over each member of it as he moved to his appointed place. Then at last, to the tune of the most whole-hearted shout of “Harley” that Rouse had ever heard, the Rainhurst captain lifted the ball gently over the heads of Harley’s forwards and the school half had misfielded. There was a rush of hurrying forwards towards the mark and the Rainhurst pack were down and shoving. Now the handicap of a lean year was transparent. The school men were slow in getting down. Before they were properly packed the ball had been in and out, and the Rainhurst threes were slinging it away to the wing, where a youngster with the pace of a stag was coming down the touch-line to take his pass. There flew across Rouse’s view sudden patches of the Harley colours; the school backs racing across and bringing down man after man; but the ball had travelled too fast for them to reach and the Rainhurst wing took it safely, ran in and kicked high and faithfully across. Rouse watched with set eyes as in mid-air the wind caught the ball and carried it swerving out of its course; then, as it began to fall, he saw his chance, darted along the goal-line and cut in under it. He had one hurried vision of a man in the Rainhurst grey and green flying towards him and gazing upward. He took no notice. He just fetched out a sudden burst of resolute speed, took the ball from the other’s reach in his stride, bowled him over and left him on the grass. Then he kicked. The ball sailed up-field like a bird and, far over the distant touch-line by the Rainhurst twenty-five, fell neatly out of play.

He had gained the school relief, but now he grew gravely anxious for the future. He did not like the way those Rainhurst threes had come away to threaten his line so early. It was ominous. He contracted his mouth severely as he saw the ball thrown out of touch and the forwards scrambling round it for possession. Once his own men had it, but the pack were not properly together and it was lost. Then the game opened up and the Rainhurst backs got on the move again. Somebody dropped a pass. There came another scrum. Rouse saw that Rainhurst had it once more and were heeling like clockwork. The Harley forwards were being beaten every time. From his own position on the field he could watch all this as if from the pit stalls of a theatre, and it kept him on tenterhooks. Once he was moving up happily behind his team, driving them on with mighty punts up-field whenever the ball came within his reach, when, quite suddenly, there flashed into the picture the Rainhurst backs racing across the field, wheeling and coming down upon him with the ball, and the whole phase of the game was changed. He drew back. He saw the Harley men move up against the coming line, watching with beating heart to see if they could shatter it. But the combination of this team in the attack was paramount. Every Harley back had made his tackle, and the ball was still in the hands of a man in grey and green. There were others running beside him. Where they had come from he had no time to guess. But so soon as a Rainhurst man was down another seemed to have darted into his place. He waited cautiously. He was the last line of defence. If he made but one mistake now Rainhurst were through. He must choose the psychological moment and he must pick the right man. There was not one second to spare. Everything in his wide field of view faded away, and the only thing that he could see was the fast magnifying picture of a line of figures in grey and green on top of him. The moment had come. He picked his man, and as he moved to take the ball, Rouse hurtled across his front, swung round his legs, and, breathless with the thud of collision, hung on. The ball flew wide, but he was too late to reach it; a gigantic boot whizzed past his face and carried it on towards the Harley line. The Rainhurst forwards pattered past him. The game had gone by and he was out of it, but he had given his own side time and the Harley men were back and defending stoutly.

After that it was give and take, and the game would not shift out of the Harley twenty-five. One high punt carried the ball out of the ruck, and Smythe came in from the wing and gathered it neatly. There was a quick expectant hush whilst he started away, and Terence was up alongside with safe hands ready for his pass. The ball jumped into his arms and he had it safely and was cutting with lowered head into the bunch of forwards who were hovering round him. A new shout of hope went up from the Harley side of the ground, but it was premature. The last to be seen of Terence was the vision of his body being dragged to earth by three men in grey and green, whilst the ball worked out into the open. Without delay those dangerous Rainhurst forwards, perfectly together, were round it in a herd. They were coming down-field with it at their toes as if it were merely a practice dribble. The sight of Coles darting into the picture, and flinging himself upon it, relieved anxiety for a moment, but he was somehow bundled out of the way and the pack came on. Rouse got ready again. The fellows on the touch-line saw him crouching for his spring and knew that he would never let them through. But in the tenseness of the moment their voices grew hushed and they could only wait. A sudden diversion saved the day. One hulking forward in the front rank of the Rainhurst pack had kicked the ball too hard and it had bounced out of reach. In a flash their chance had gone. Smythe came across their front at a sprint, gathered the ball with extended hands and carried it clear.

Again the shouting started. Smythe had it safely and his wing was clear for twenty yards. He bent to his task and ran. One of the Rainhurst halfbacks was pounding behind him, but had not the pace to make the tackle. Smythe shook him off and looked for his own three-quarters. They had shaped out into position and were well in motion. Then the Rainhurst wing, whose duty was to mark Smythe, came in with a rush and he passed the ball; but as he spun sideways and was dragged down on to his back he had the horrifying vision vouchsafed him of another man in grey and green speeding away with that same ball on his chest, whilst Terence was pounding after him and reaching desperately for his jersey. There was one tense moment of doubt and fear, then the sprinting man had swerved past Lister and had only Rouse to beat. Just as before, Rouse came into the picture with a dashing enthusiasm and took his man at a gallop. The Rainhurst runner had no chance. In two seconds it was all over and Rouse was scrambling to his feet, whilst the school forwards, a badly bustled pack, came round and struggled for the ball. It came out and somebody fell on it, so that there followed another scrum. Again it worked loose on the Rainhurst side, but Coles smothered the lucky half before he could get it away, and not an inch was gained. At last Saville, seeing the ball bouncing before his eyes, grabbed at it and punted for touch. But the Rainhurst blood was up and they meant to score. The game had settled upon the Harley twenty-five and nothing could move it on. Rainhurst were too good. Every scrum went in their favour. They could do everything but cross the line. Time and again their threes seemed safely away and would have scored, had not there shone from out the Harley Fifteen a wondrous individuality of play that held them. There was always one who darted in at the critical moment and scooped the ball into his keeping or downed the man who had it. His instinct of defence was magical. He seemed ubiquitous and impregnable, and through Harley’s rough time he held together a team that were weary of tackling by an outstanding energy that made him a standard-bearer to his side.

Wherever he could be seen at grips with the attacking host the Harley men rallied around him. He grew discoloured with mud and the bruises of continuous collision and became unlike himself, but so long as they could identify his shape the vast crowd never ceased to shout his name.

And so when half time came and play stopped suddenly there was set upon the field a tableau.

Yesterday’s captain stood unconquered upon his line, with his scratch team gathered round him, and the Rainhurst men were held.

There came a gracious interval, and on to the field moved streams of enthusing Harleyans who clapped upon the back each member of the team that they could reach, whilst Rouse moved this way and that amongst his men, whispering words of counsel for the even greater battle that was to come.

“You were fine,” he said to each in turn, “but we haven’t scored yet.”

They nodded grimly, making their own resolve in secret, and so when the whistle blew again, and the ball was once more lifted into the air, it was Harley who started the attack.

The forwards, as if in an effort to make up for their clear defeat in the scrum, gathered the ball amongst them and took it away up-field with an all-devouring dash. For a little while the Rainhurst men were staggered. Harley made way by grim degrees towards their goal. Close up, Betteridge, who was long in the arm, contrived to reach the ball and toss it back over his head to the neighbourhood where the three-quarters were waiting eagerly. Terence jumped sideways and took it as it bounced; but a stalwart figure in grey and green was upon him before he could make away, and the chance was gone. Yet Harley would not be denied. The great shouting from their fellows on the touch-line kept them at it. Again and again the ball was taken forward at a pell-mell rush, only to be suddenly gathered and punted back by Rainhurst.

And at these times it was Rouse who nipped in and fielded it as it fell, so that great punts into touch, far up, kept the school at the right end.

The suddenness with which Rainhurst turned their defence into attack proved the greatness of their side. For a full ten minutes they had been hard pressed, and no one knew how it was that their stand-off half found that wonderful opening. Yet in some way he had caught the Harley men all on one side of the ground. A high punt carried the ball towards him and he took it on the run, and kicked down the field. It dropped midway between Rouse and himself, and he had just that extra turn of speed that enabled him to get to it first. He held it for a bare moment whilst he swerved, then he had kicked again, high over Rouse’s head, and was following up as before. The luck was all his. The try depended on the bounce of the ball, and it bounced straight into his hands. Afterwards it was only a question of pace; he had that pace and he scored far out.

Slowly and solemnly Harley lined up under the posts. They heard the frenzied cheering of the Rainhurst boys and bore it patiently. But Rouse said never a word, and only those who took a covert glance at him knew what must be passing in his mind.

The place kick went wide, and so the game restarted. And now the shouting for Harley, hoarse with strain, seemed, nevertheless, redoubled into a roar of pleading. Just once Rouse looked towards them. Then he turned back to the game and was pacing slowly across the field, staring with set eyes at the scramble for the ball as it came out from touch. Time passed. Fellows on the line began to glance nervously at their watches, but he seemed to take no count of it. He just moved always behind his team, nursing each movement with consummate understanding and calling to them gently by name when the play opened up.

At last their opportunity came.

Almost upon the Rainhurst twenty-five a free kick was awarded Harley. The shouting died away. The crowded touch-line suddenly grew still. Rouse moved forward. He looked round for Coles. Coles was the best drop-kick in the school. It mattered not to Rouse that this might prove the winning effort of the match, and that if so the certainty existed that Coles would know how to turn it to good account. The school came first. He called to Coles:

“Try for goal.”

Coles went to the mark, looked round him almost nervously, took careful aim; the ball fell and he met it beautifully on the bounce with his toe. It was a great kick, and at first it seemed to have scored. Yet just beside the goal the breeze caught it and held it up. It dropped slowly just on the wrong side of the posts. Coles turned away distressfully. He took no notice of the cordial clapping. He had failed. Rainhurst took heart again. Over and over again they broke away, only to be smothered by the irresistible tackling of Rouse’s chosen backs. They had earned one try and it was clear that it had been the most they could do. It was not an effort that could be repeated. Harley could prevent it, but there was something they could not do. They could not find the way through to that other goal-line that would mean so much to them. At last this seemed to be borne in upon them slowly and they began to tire. They were losing and their hearts were failing them. Rouse could see it. He said no word. Instead he grew more resolute in manner and more wonderful in his own kicks, knowing that nothing can pull a tired team together like example. Somehow or other they would have to score. He was their captain and it was his task to whip them into a last desperate effort that would carry someone over that line. If they could not win this match, then at least they should not be beaten. He began to grow restless. Time was passing quickly. He felt that great responsibility upon him again. He had been chosen captain. If he could not somehow get one try out of this side from Harley then he was not a worthy leader. They had to cross that line. It was his task to make them. Only so could the greatness of this match be capped. Only so could this day be marked for always in red letters on the school’s official calendar.

And then, suddenly enough, the ball worked loose and a Rainhurst man, bearing down upon it, had gathered it into his arms and was away. Smythe was out of position and he had a clear field. Coles sped diagonally across the field and with a gallant effort almost reached him, but the Rainhurst man had too great a pace and escaped by inches. As he ran he looked urgently for his partner. Not only his own centre but the whole of the Rainhurst line were with him. He glanced along it delightedly, saw it moving with him at top speed, and then he looked ahead. There was only one man to pass—a tired man, discoloured with the stain of battle. One man against a line. He ran in a little, ready for a swerve, prepared to pass. The one man watched him as he came with glassy eyes. The moment came. Rouse moved to make his tackle. As he did so the Rainhurst man flung the ball towards the centre, and in that moment he realised his mistake.

In those precious seconds that Rouse had had in which to make his quick decision he had realised that, with a complete line running with him, the man with the ball would not attempt to get through on his own. It was an isolated case in which he would be justified in not tackling that man. Once he, the last line of defence, was down and out of action, the Rainhurst line were through and a try was a virtual certainty.

He had bent to a dummy tackle, then straightening instantly he sprang into the air and intercepted the pass. Next second he was away with it on his chest.

In that moment the little world around the field went wild. The whole of the Rainhurst line had passed him and were looking back dazedly over their shoulder. Before him the field of play opened out, and he saw that the way was clear. Until he had summoned his utmost speed he looked neither to right nor left, but when at last he was running as only a man extended to the last degree can run he glanced around for aid, and it was there. Terence was sprinting beside him like one possessed, and his voice rang wildly across the open:

“With you! With you!”

It was enough. Rouse turned again to his front and called out one extra yard of inhuman pace. He knew now that he was not alone. The day was saved. A man in grey and green sprang across his path, and Rouse handed him off and sent him staggering aside. Then he could see that, just as when the Rainhurst line had come upon him, so now he had come upon his rival back, and he saw him preparing for his tackle.

He moved his hands and began to circle them ready to give his pass.

Just beyond Terence he caught a quick glimpse of Smythe flying down the touch-line in an effort to draw alongside. The deafening cheers of young men leaning over the ropes and beating the air with caps were urging him on.

Then the moment had come. He swerved in slightly, made ready, and flung the ball straight and true into Terence’s hands.

A baby could not have dropped it.

And as the Rainhurst man came at him and brought him down on his side, he saw the flying figure of Terence darting over the line and grounding the ball between the posts.

At that moment he would have given his kingdom to have stayed where he fell upon the grass, and to have lain in peace until the aching in his weary limbs had passed.

Yet he scrambled up. The air was thick with waving hats. He shouted to Smythe, but in the din no one could hear his voice.

So he signalled the order, and Smythe went slowly to the mark and took the kick. In a deadly hush the ball rose into the air and dropped truly and gracefully over the bar.

In the turmoil that followed the referee’s no-side whistle was scarcely heard. Rouse looked round hopelessly. There was no way out. Wave upon wave of shouting Harley maniacs were bearing down on him from every side.

He was seized and shaken, found himself lifted up by the legs. He tried to break free. It was utterly useless. So at last he looked at them wearily in turn.

And then he smiled.

For this one day he had been their captain. Nothing mattered now.