The Gold Bat/Chapter 11
It was something of a consolation to Barry and his friends—at any rate, to Barry and Drummond—that directly after they had been evicted from their study, the house-matches began. Except for the Ripton match, the house-matches were the most important event of the Easter term. Even the sports at the beginning of April were productive of less excitement. There were twelve houses at Wrykyn, and they played on the “knocking-out” system. To be beaten once meant that a house was no longer eligible for the competition. It could play “friendlies” as much as it liked, but, play it never so wisely, it could not lift the cup. Thus it often happened that a weak house, by fluking a victory over a strong rival, found itself, much to its surprise, in the semi-final, or sometimes even in the final. This was rarer at football than at cricket, for at football the better team generally wins.
The favourites this year were Donaldson’s, though some fancied Seymour’s. Donaldson’s had Trevor, whose leadership was worth almost more than his play. In no other house was training so rigid. You could tell a Donaldson’s man, if he was in his house-team, at a glance. If you saw a man eating oatmeal biscuits in the shop, and eyeing wistfully the while the stacks of buns and pastry, you could put him down as a Donaldsonite without further evidence. The captains of the other houses used to prescribe a certain amount of self-abnegation in the matter of food, but Trevor left his men barely enough to support life—enough, that is, of the things that are really worth eating. The consequence was that Donaldson’s would turn out for an important match all muscle and bone, and on such occasions it was bad for those of their opponents who had been taking life more easily. Besides Trevor they had Clowes, and had had bad luck in not having Paget. Had Paget stopped, no other house could have looked at them. But by his departure, the strength of the team had become more nearly on a level with that of Seymour’s.
Some even thought that Seymour’s were the stronger. Milton was as good a forward as the school possessed. Besides him there were Barry and Rand-Brown on the wings. Drummond was a useful half, and five of the pack had either first or second fifteen colours. It was a team that would take some beating.
Trevor came to that conclusion early. “If we can beat Seymour’s, we’ll lift the cup,” he said to Clowes.
“We’ll have to do all we know,” was Clowes’ reply.
They were watching Seymour’s pile up an immense score against a scratch team got up by one of the masters. The first round of the competition was over. Donaldson’s had beaten Templar’s, Seymour’s the School House. Templar’s were rather stronger than the School House, and Donaldson’s had beaten them by a rather larger score than that which Seymour’s had run up in their match. But neither Trevor nor Clowes was inclined to draw any augury from this. Seymour’s had taken things easily after half-time; Donaldson’s had kept going hard all through.
“That makes Rand-Brown’s fourth try,” said Clowes, as the wing three-quarter of the second fifteen raced round and scored in the corner.
“Yes. This is the sort of game he’s all right in. The man who’s marking him is no good. Barry’s scored twice, and both good tries, too.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt which is the best man,” said Clowes. “I only mentioned that it was Rand-Brown’s fourth as an item of interest.”
The game continued. Barry scored a third try.
“We’re drawn against Appleby’s next round,” said Trevor. “We can manage them all right.”
“When is it?”
“Next Thursday. Nomads’ match on Saturday. Then Ripton, Saturday week.”
“Who’ve Seymour’s drawn?”
“Day’s. It’ll be a good game, too. Seymour’s ought to win, but they’ll have to play their best. Day’s have got some good men.”
“Fine scrum,” said Clowes. “Yes. Quick in the open, too, which is always good business. I wish they’d beat Seymour’s.”
“Oh, we ought to be all right, whichever wins.”
Appleby’s did not offer any very serious resistance to the Donaldson attack. They were outplayed at every point of the game, and, before half-time, Donaldson’s had scored their thirty points. It was a rule in all in-school matches—and a good rule, too—that, when one side led by thirty points, the match stopped. This prevented those massacres which do so much towards crushing all the football out of the members of the beaten team; and it kept the winning team from getting slack, by urging them on to score their thirty points before half-time. There were some houses—notoriously slack—which would go for a couple of seasons without ever playing the second half of a match.
Having polished off the men of Appleby, the Donaldson team trooped off to the other game to see how Seymour’s were getting on with Day’s. It was evidently an exciting match. The first half had been played to the accompaniment of much shouting from the ropes. Though coming so early in the competition, it was really the semi-final, for whichever team won would be almost certain to get into the final. The school had turned up in large numbers to watch.
“Seymour’s looking tired of life,” said Clowes. “That would seem as if his fellows weren’t doing well.”
“What’s been happening here?” asked Trevor of an enthusiast in a Seymour’s house cap whose face was crimson with yelling.
“One goal all,” replied the enthusiast huskily. “Did you beat Appleby’s?”
“Yes. Thirty points before half-time. Who’s been doing the scoring here?”
“Milton got in for us. He barged through out of touch. We’ve been pressing the whole time. Barry got over once, but he was held up. Hullo, they’re beginning again. Buck up, Sey-mour’s.”
His voice cracking on the high note, he took an immense slab of vanilla chocolate as a remedy for hoarseness.
“Who scored for Day’s?” asked Clowes.
“Strachan. Rand-Brown let him through from their twenty-five. You never saw anything so rotten as Rand-Brown. He doesn’t take his passes, and Strachan gets past him every time.”
“Is Strachan playing on the wing?”
Strachan was the first fifteen full-back.
“Yes. They’ve put young Bassett back instead of him. Sey-mour’s. Buck up, Seymour’s. We-ell played! There, did you ever see anything like it?” he broke off disgustedly.
The Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to the back and passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was a perfect pass, except that it came at his head instead of his chest. Nobody with any pretensions to decent play should have missed it. Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat. The ball struck his hands and bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for a scrum, and a certain try was lost.
From the scrum the Seymour’s forwards broke away to the goal-line, where they were pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence had been pierced, and Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across the line. The enthusiast standing by Clowes expended the last relics of his voice in commemorating the fact that his side had the lead.
“Drummond’ll be good next year,” said Trevor. And he made a mental note to tell Allardyce, who would succeed him in the command of the school football, to keep an eye on the player in question.
The triumph of the Seymourites was not long lived. Milton failed to convert Drummond’s try. From the drop-out from the twenty-five line Barry got the ball, and punted into touch. The throw-out was not straight, and a scrum was formed. The ball came out to the Day’s halves, and went across to Strachan. Rand-Brown hesitated, and then made a futile spring at the first fifteen man’s neck. Strachan handed him off easily, and ran. The Seymour’s full-back, who was a poor player, failed to get across in time. Strachan ran round behind the posts, the kick succeeded, and Day’s now led by two points.
After this the game continued in Day’s half. Five minutes before time was up, Drummond got the ball from a scrum nearly on the line, passed it to Barry on the wing instead of opening up the game by passing to his centres, and Barry slipped through in the corner. This put Seymour’s just one point ahead, and there they stayed till the whistle blew for no-side.
Milton walked over to the boarding-houses with Clowes and Trevor. He was full of the match, particularly of the iniquity of Rand-Brown. “I slanged him on the field,” he said. “It’s a thing I don’t often do, but what else can you do when a man plays like that? He lost us three certain tries.”
“When did you administer your rebuke?” inquired Clowes.
“When he had let Strachan through that second time, in the second half. I asked him why on earth he tried to play footer at all. I told him a good kiss-in-the-ring club was about his form. It was rather cheap, but I felt so frightfully sick about it. It’s sickening to be let down like that when you’ve been pressing the whole time, and ought to be scoring every other minute.”
“What had he to say on the subject?” asked Clowes.
“Oh, he gassed a bit until I told him I’d kick him if he said another word. That shut him up.”
“You ought to have kicked him. You want all the kicking practice you can get. I never saw anything feebler than that shot of yours after Drummond’s try.”
“I’d like to see you take a kick like that. It was nearly on the touch-line. Still, when we play you, we shan’t need to convert any of our tries. We’ll get our thirty points without that. Perhaps you’d like to scratch?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Clowes confidentially, “I am going to score seven tries against you off my own bat. You’ll be sorry you ever turned out when we’ve finished with you.”