TOM BROWN'S
run left in him. Reckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level big-side ground, the ball well down among them, straight for our goal, like the column of the Old Guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former charges have been child's play to this. Warner and Hedge have met them, but still on they come. The bulldogs rush in for the last time; they are hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids. Old Brooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and, turning short round, picks out the very heart of the scrummage and plunges in. It wavers for a moment—he has the ball! No, it has passed him, and his voice rings out clear over the advancing tide, "Look out in goal!" Crab Jones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick the rush is upon him and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them, with his straw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.
The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal not three yards in front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.
There stand the School-house præpostor, safest of goal-keepers, and Tom Brown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is your time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in together and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the advancing column—the præpostor on his hands and knees, arching his back, and Tom all along on his face. Over them topple the leaders of the rush, shooting over the back of the præpostor, but falling flat on Tom and knocking all the wind out of his small carcass. "Our ball!" says the præpostor, rising with his prize; "but get up there—there's a little fellow under you." They are hauled and rolled off him, and Tom is discovered a motionless body.
Old Brooke picks him up. "Stand back; give him air," he says; and then, feeling his limbs, adds, "No bones broken. How do you feel, young un?"
"Hah-hah," gasps Tom, as his wind comes back, "pretty well, thank you—all right."
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