Читать книгу Captains of Harley - Hylton Cleaver - Страница 4

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Rouse was walking slowly from the school towards the playing fields. He was clad in a blazer surmounted by a wide school muffler, wound several times round his neck, and upon his head he wore a velvet cap heavily embroidered with brocade. Rouse was at peace with all the world. The wonderful thing had happened at last: he was captain of Rugby football at Harley. That it would come had been a foregone conclusion amongst those who knew. Rouse himself had been a little doubtful. For one thing he was not yet in the Sixth, and though he had certainly been made a prefect in spite of this fact the previous term, he knew that he was commonly regarded as a boy who could see nothing but the silly side of things. He had been sorry about this because, in spite of his extravagant sense of humour and his consistent lightheartedness, he could be serious enough over things that really mattered, and to him Rugger was one of the things that really did. Only his closest friends were permitted to understand this side of his character, for he was sensitive about it, but he found that just as it pays one man to seem a fool so it sometimes paid him to maintain a reputation for irresponsibility. Toby and Terence knew him best, and the Grey Man had grown to understand him; extraordinarily well too. These had known that if he were elected captain of football he would make good. Moreover the school had wanted him to be elected. He was easily the most popular player in the whole of Harley, and besides, he was the most senior of the old colours, which was always the main consideration in electing the new captain.

Well, they had elected him. It had been quite an uproarious meeting, too; there had been no end of enthusiasm. One small clique had certainly put up another man whom they claimed was of equal seniority in the Fifteen, but on hearing his name proposed the gentleman in question had instantly and somewhat confusedly refused to stand, loudly disclaiming any desire to skipper a team which could claim the leadership of a man like Rouse; and amidst loud and approving cheers he had seized the hand of Rouse and wrung it with the utmost enthusiasm; after which his friends had been at some pains to explain to their neighbours that they had only mentioned his name to let him know that he had not been entirely forgotten.

So Rouse had really achieved his great ambition.... It was hard not to chuckle. He progressed steadily towards the practice Rugger ground, singing gently to himself and picturing the season they were going to have. Secretly he longed to organise some great rag which should celebrate this event, for hitherto his life had been largely made up of rags. He realised now, however, that he would have to steady down. He had to train a team and lead them on the field, and he had to help Toby Nicholson teach small boys Rugger. That would take all his time, and for such employment it was worth while foregoing rags.

Presently he came within sight of the football ground that was his destination. Already a crowd was spreading along the touch-lines. He fingered the switch in his hand with affection. This switch had seen very good service, for it had been handed on from captain to captain from time immemorial. You may have thought that Rouse was about to play Rugby football. He was not. He was about to teach it. On the first day of each winter term at Harley (and also on other days throughout the season) two teams are selected to compete in a practice game, and they consist of small boys and idle boys and new boys. The excuse that some of these may not know Rugby football is of no account. They attend for instruction, and the remainder of the school line up with their waistcoats comfortably loosened in order that they may laugh the more heartily. The games master referees and the captain of football is armed with this switch, a cut from which is awarded, on the occasion of each scrum, to the last man into it, whilst whenever a three-quarter becomes possessed of the ball he is pursued up the field by this selfsame man, running rapidly and urging him with word and gesture and such occasional flicks of his switch as cause each boy, before the game is done, to feel himself possessed of a demon of speed and agility. There is also a cut for any boy who, in making a tackle, fails to go for his man at the knees. It may be noted that old Harleyans attribute the great success of the school at Rugby football very largely to the excellent effect produced by the captain’s switch in junior games; and one famous international has laid it down that in any big match in which he has broken through with the ball upon his chest he has invariably reached by instinct for that extra yard of speed which comes from the fear of a young man racing behind him with a switch, and has thanked his Alma Mater that he was taught to do so. Nor will you ever see an old Harleyan last into a scrum or tackling high. It is a good sign.

The crowd made way for Rouse admiringly, and a characteristic smile, which in a young boy would have looked more roguish than anything else, began to appear at the corners of his mouth. In a game like this Rouse was in his element. He looked thoughtfully round the players and finally glanced up and down the touch-lines as if in search of any who had evaded his clutch. There came a ripple of amusement. Some of those present recalled that on the occasion of the corresponding match last year those who laughed the most uproariously from the touch-line had been marked down by Toby Nicholson’s eagle eye during the game, and at half time had been called upon to perform themselves. It was possible that this would occur again, and throughout the world those who have once succumbed to any catch are the keenest layers of the trap for the next man.

At last the whistle blew. Next moment Rouse had skipped nimbly into the midst of things, encouraging all with loud cries, and the idea of the switch in Rouse’s exuberant hands caused a great and lasting enthusiasm amongst the players that was exceedingly stirring. Forwards fought for a place in the front row of the scrum, and many a youth who thought himself likely to be considered late might be heard loudly declaiming the fact that he had already packed down once, but finding himself the fourth man in the front row had been compelled to retire.

At last one line of three-quarters was fairly away with the ball, and Rouse went racing across from one to the other, whirling his arm to ensure that each man took his pass at top speed. Ultimately the wing received the ball, and being entirely new to the game clearly did not know what to do with it. For a moment he paused and looked round in sheer bewilderment. It was fatal. There came a rush of air, and Rouse was up alongside, driving him forward and shouting aloud definite instructions. A tall thin boy came towards them and made his tackle; in a mad moment he went high. Too late he realised his mistake. Out of the corner of his eyes he was conscious of the switch, and his hands slid down to the runner’s knees and tightened their grip till both came to the ground and rolled over and over, whilst the ball flew forwards and was gathered by an excited youth in abnormally long knickerbockers of homemade design. Then, high above the laughter of the crowd, there sounded a great bellow, something akin to the cry of a thoroughly mad hyæna. At first it was difficult to locate. Rouse paused and his eyes passed swiftly down either touch-line. The laughter stopped, and he stepped out and cut lightly at a boy who had just received the ball in his hands and had not got away so smartly as he should. The game proceeded. Now and again that loud, extravagant laugh sounded across the field and caused others to turn in search of it. As a noise it was altogether novel. Evidently some poor boy was absolutely unable to control his merriment, and unaware of the fate that would follow him he gave it full rein. At last there could be no doubt who was doing it; the laugh became a magnet. Every head was turned towards it. Half time came, and Rouse spun on his heel and located it definitely. He walked across. On the touch-line he stretched out his hand and pointed out the unfortunate creature. It was the boy of such surprising fatness, the stupid-looking boy, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Toby Nicholson had moved up alongside Rouse.

“Look here,” said he, “why is it you are not playing?”

The fat boy shook his head.

“I don’t play that game.”

Rouse thrust his hands into his pockets and nodded his head.

“Ah,” said he, “many a man is walking down the Strand to-day with the linings of his pockets hanging out, many a lordly mansion has been crumbled into dust, many a stately avenue of elms laid low, many a boy will be knocking at the door of Dr Barnardo’s Home to-night... all because somebody hasn’t learned the lesson of Rugby football. Do you know that?”

“Why, no,” said the fat boy quakingly.

Toby had produced a small book.

“Your name?”

“Coppin, sir.”

“Go quickly to the changing-rooms and attire yourself for the fray. You will be just in time for the second half.”

“But I... I... I can’t play this game.”

“You will soon learn,” said Toby consolingly. “Time was I didn’t know how to play it.” He turned. “You see that boy over there in the long knickerbockers? That boy’s name is Henry Hope. That boy will never learn how to play Rugby football. He has every disadvantage. For one thing he is short-sighted. He cannot distinguish one jersey from another. He tackles his own side. It doesn’t matter. He plays the game just the same and he says that it does him good. You’ll find the same.” He turned to Rouse. “You’d better take this young sportsman to the changing-rooms and fit him out with togs.”

Rouse moved alertly to the fat boy’s side and piloted him out of the crowd and rapidly across the field towards the changing-rooms; and as he went he bubbled to himself delightedly. He turned at last and regarded the unhappy Arthur.

Arthur’s trousers were short and very tight. The sleeves of his coat reached midway between the elbow and the wrist, the buttons of his waistcoat were straining in the leash, and his neck bulged over the top of his collar. The pace was too much for him. He began to pant.

“You’ll feel better with your clothes off,” said Rouse encouragingly. “Hold your breath for just a few minutes longer; you’ll be able to let off steam properly as soon as you’re unfastened... and you will look bonny in shorts.”

He chuckled.

“What is going to happen?” demanded Arthur. “What are they going to make me do?”

“Run,” said Rouse hoarsely.

“Shall I be thrown to the ground like those other boys?”

“You will be thrown to the dogs,” was the immediate answer.

“Oh, but it’s such a rough game. I shall be hurt.”

“What? You? Never!” Rouse assured him. “Everybody who falls on you will think you’re an air cushion.”

Further bursts of laughter reached them from across the open, and they turned. To the fat boy’s satisfaction other stragglers were being led in his own track. There was a tall thin boy, and a square boy with hair like hay, and an ordinary-looking boy and an extraordinary-looking boy. They had all been sorted out. He supposed they had all been laughing. Arthur turned back. His world was very drear. He was filled with acute foreboding. They had reached the changing-room. He was led in. Here, so far as those who were waiting on the touch-line were concerned, the curtain fell. At last it was lifted again. The sight was astounding. Arthur was being led back. Behind him came the other boys who had laughed so heartily, but they were unimportant. Arthur held the eye. His extraordinary fatness was now entirely disclosed. Wherever it was possible to bulge Arthur bulged. And his eyes were bulging most of all.

Rouse held him by the arm. Evidently he had had some difficulty in fitting Arthur out, but he was apparently well pleased with the result.

Toby met them and spent a few moments in outlining the theory of the game for Arthur’s benefit. Arthur nodded his head dolefully. It was clear that he had not another laugh left in his system. Also he looked cold.

He was led on to the field. The other new-comers were sorted out and instructed to replace some of those who had had enough of it. Then the whistle blew. There came a thump of a boot meeting leather and the ball was sailing towards Arthur. For just one second Arthur regarded it stiffly, transfixed with horror, then he turned and ran rapidly in the other direction. There was a howl of derision. Arthur turned. There was no way of escape. The ball was bouncing after him. It was like a nightmare. From all sides of the field boys were rushing towards it. He gave one choking cry, threw up his hands and fell heavily on his face. Next moment a swarm of forwards had crowded round him and were packing down over his prostrate body. Somebody seized him by the leg and pulled him out of the way. He rose and looked round him with wild eyes. His hair was ruffled. There was mud upon his nose.

Rouse came up and explained to him what he ought to have done. He looked at Rouse dazedly. Rouse inserted him bodily into the scrum, head down, and told him to push.

He fell on his face. Rouse picked him up, and he tottered and fell on his back. The game went on and left him there. Rouse shouted to him, and he rose and stood for a moment with boggling eyes and nodding head, thinking. Toby pointed into the distance and spoke cheering words.

“Chase after it, man! Scoot! Catch ’em up!”

He began to trot foolishly up the field, with Rouse behind him. And then suddenly the ball came sailing towards him again and dropped directly on to his chest. He clutched at it as if for support and Rouse let loose a loud shout of delight.

“NOW! You’re off. Nothing can stop you!” He whipped him gently into a gallop.

As if suddenly imbued with the spirit of the game Arthur began to show determination. A boy flew at him. Arthur handed him off with violence.

“Let me alone!” he cried, suddenly very wrath.

Another essayed to tackle him. Arthur struggled clear of his grasp but overbalanced and let go the ball.

Immediately another boy had sprung forward and gathered it.

Arthur shot after him. He suddenly understood. Everybody was against him. He had to get the ball and everybody was trying to steal it away. The sole idea of the game was that he should be allowed to run about the field holding the ball, and they were all cheating. They wouldn’t let him do it. He caught the thief by his jersey and tugged him back.

His fierce cries sounded across the field.

“Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to me!”

He had nearly got it. Somebody pulled him back, and he struggled in his grasp.

“Let me to the ball,” he besought, sobbing with bitterness. “Oh, let me to the ball.”

So they stood back and let him to the ball. Rouse had signed to them.

He had it at last.

He smiled gleefully. He begun to trot up the field like a pup with a slipper. He looked from side to side as if for applause, began to raise his knees higher and higher from the ground. Rouse ran joyously beside him, pointing out the distant goal-line as if it were a promised land and instructing him what to do.

He was delighted beyond measure. He did not know that everybody was standing about the field watching him go, and trying to throttle hysteric laughter. He thought that he was the hero of the hour. At last they were nearly there. It was a good thing because he was beginning to puff.

“HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A

SLIPPER.”

“Put it on that line,” said Rouse. “Put it down there, then touch it down.”

He had arrived. He bent obediently and did as he was bid.

“There you are,” said Rouse happily. “You’ve scored a try.”

Arthur turned and looked round and about. Everywhere boys were throwing caps into the air and cheering. It was a great moment. Toby had come up and seemed to be speaking to him, but in the wild noise of applause he could not distinguish a word. He grinned broadly.

At last the thunder of cheers died down.

“That’s Rugger,” said Toby. “It’s a great game. Don’t you think so? You’ll play it all your life now. That’s your first game and you’ll never forget it.”

He never did. Nobody who learns Rugger at Harley ever does.

The boy who had sat in the corner had been learning Rugger that afternoon too, and as he walked slowly off the field a tall fellow, considerably older than he, came up and touched him on the arm.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

Bobbie Carr looked up, then slowly seemed to remember, and to the other it appeared that he turned a little pale. At first he made no answer. He just looked. Eventually he turned away.

The other still held his arm.

“D’you mean to say your father has sent you to a public school?” said he.

He was not a nice-looking fellow. He had a remarkably long and disproportionate nose. Also his lips had a sarcastic turn. His name was Coles.

“This is good,” said he, and gave a short laugh. “I must write and tell the gov’nor about this. He’ll be awfully amused. What do you think the fellows here will say when they know what your father is?”

Bobbie Carr looked straight up at him, but there was a queer look of anxiety on his face.

“They’re not going to know,” said he at last. “I’ve promised I wouldn’t say.”

“I should think so,” said Coles. “You won’t be very happy here when they find out he’s a——”

A figure came up suddenly from behind and moved between them. A large hand rested upon Bobbie’s shoulder.

“Well, sonny,” said Rouse. “How did you enjoy it?”