King of Ranleigh: A School Story

"Of course, you fellows will have to sport the School colours," said Masters to the few smaller boys near him in the dormitory, boys with whom his reputation was certainly enlarged since his addition to the ranks of the Old Firm. "You haven't got any, Tompkins. Then you'll jolly well have to find 'em. Sneak someone else's if you can."

"Can't," declared the youthful Tompkins, looking about him helplessly. "I've tried. Carter caught me in the act and swore he'd report me for prigging."

"Can't! There ain't no such word," said Masters severely, though he had used it often enough himself. "Ah! Bright idea! Look here, young un. I've two sets. I'll sell you one. Here we are. Dirt cheap! Two bob, money down."

That caused Tompkins to look askance at the great Masters. He had a very shrewd idea that, whatever the condition of the tie he was asked to purchase, he would certainly not be getting the best of the bargain. He was sure of it a few seconds later, when the article was produced. It was one which Masters had himself bought second, or more likely third or fourth hand, and it bore unmistakable evidence of hard and long wear. Tompkins turned his nose up.

"That!" he exclaimed. "Two bob! Not me!"

"Look here," said Masters. "None of your cheek, kid. It's a bargain; and you'll be jolly well kicked if you don't sport colours."

The end of the matter was that the seller deigned to take sixpence, the same to be paid by weekly instalments of one penny, Tompkins being by no means flush. Their dressing was hastily completed, when they rushed down for call-over and Chapel. Later, at breakfast, heads were turned from all directions to watch the various members of the team on whom the honour of Ranleigh was to depend. Those lucky gentlemen were eating stolidly and with satisfaction. It was clear that, whatever the ordeal before them, their appetites were not impaired. As for Sturton, he was positively boisterous.

"We'll put up a game, at any rate," he told Bagshaw across the scholars' table. "We'll give those Parkland fellows the game of their lives."

"And don't forget," cautioned his friend, "steady does it. Training is everything. If Parkland fellows are as fit as ours, why, then the tussle'll be all the harder. But if they're not, then we should come along well after half's called. That'll be the time to break up their defence and run through 'em. So keep our chaps in hand at first. Let 'em break out hard once the match is half finished."

There was anxiety even on the faces of the masters. And why not? They were every bit as keen as any of the boys. The Old Firm, usually so truculent and full of spirits, was quite subdued during morning school. The fate of the great day hung like a load upon their shoulders.

"What'd we do if we were beaten?" asked Clive desperately. "Ranleigh'd go clean to the dogs."

"Rot!" came Bert's characteristic answer. "We'd just grind away again, and beat 'em next time, certain. But Ranleigh's going to win. I've put my bat against Masters' tennis shoes, and must have 'em. You'll see. Sturton'll pull us through, and those tennis shoes fit me to a T."

Susanne, the friendly Susanne, actually nodded to Rawlings on this great day, while Trendall failed to scowl at him as had been his custom. As for Rawlings himself, he was in a fever. He wasn't such a cur that he didn't wish to see Ranleigh victorious. But, then, victory meant even greater popularity for Sturton, for Norman, and for Harper and other members of the school, and Rawlings was intensely jealous of anyone's popularity. He would have been king of Ranleigh could he have ordered it. He would have been the highest and the noblest, and then, what a life he would lead some of the fellows! Susanne, for instance – yes, he hadn't forgotten Susanne's behaviour, and how he had worsted him at their first meeting. Norman, too, for he hated Norman now that he no longer could control him, and Clive Darrell. He sneered as he thought of the latter, but the sneer became a frown. Rawlings was not quite sure what his own particular feelings were as regards our hero. In his heart of hearts he rather feared him. And the secret knowledge he had, knowledge unsuspected by Clive and his mother, but vaguely suspected and hinted at by their old gardener, gave him added cause for fear. Still, Clive had nothing to gain by this match against Parkland, and therefore Rawlings betook himself to the playing-field with as cheerful a face as he could assume, arm in arm with Soper, one of his own kidney, a slacker – one, in fact, of Ranleigh's bad bargains.

By two o'clock the field was crammed. Ranleigh boys wandered round and round the touch line, cheering madly now and again when they met a crowd of opponents. For Parkland was near at hand, and had sent every boy and master to watch the historic contest. There was a terrific burst of cheering when at length the Parkland eleven put in an appearance. Big, hefty fellows, they came down to the field in a group, and, arrived at the outskirts, Barlow, their Captain, a fine fellow, even when compared with Sturton, took the practice ball and punted it.

"My word!" groaned Masters, watching it soar. "He's a kicker! If they're all like him what chance do we stand?"

The question was answered within the minute. For having gone back and forth, the ball was finally kicked again toward the entrance to the field, for another group of players had suddenly put in an appearance. It was Sturton and his eleven. The Captain caught the punted ball in mid-air, stepped a couple of paces forward and sent it hurtling toward the sky. A terrific cheer greeted the performance and the arrival of the home team. Not that Ranleigh had stood still and silent when Barlow and the Parkland team came on to the field. They gave them a lusty and noisy greeting, while Parkland fellows, naturally enough, yelled at the top of their voices. Ranleigh fellows were sportsmen ever, and could afford such a welcome. Still, they had their own duties to perform, and they let Sturton and his team know well, and Parkland fellows also, that their undivided favour went in one direction.

And now the touch-line was black with figures. Already Barlow and his men were on the field, while Sturton was just entering the touch-line. Clive felt a little cold thrill run down his spine as he watched their Captain. Sturton, his head a little in the air, a cool smile on his handsome face, led the way direct towards Barlow, and shook that fine fellow's hand eagerly. Then followed Robson, a little shorter than Sturton, but nicely built, with particularly well-made legs and thighs. The back of his head supported his football colours, while issuing from beneath the cap was an abundance of fair hair. Robson also sported on his upper lip a line of similar-coloured fluff, much to Susanne's envy.

There was Norman close behind, Harper, the big Australian, and Purdey arm in arm, laughing heartily at some joke passing between them, Jenkins Primus immediately behind them and the remainder of the eleven. There was Bagshaw, too, dressed in a new suit of knicker-bockers, with a muffler round his neck, a flag in one hand and whistle in his pocket.

"Hooray for Ranleigh!" Masters started the shouting. The boys took it up all round the field with a vengeance, while the players arranged themselves.

"Parkland! Parkland for ever!" the enemy retorted with tremendous cheers, and then broke into the weirdest chant, something particular to Parkland.

"Hear 'em singing, or groaning, which is it?" said Masters, with huge disdain. "We'll make 'em sing, I can tell you fellows! Hullo, Tompkins, where's those colours?"

His grammar was not always too correct, but his meaning was at any rate evident. He pounced on Tompkins, tore his coat open and exposed his tie.

"A beastly red thing!" he shouted, seizing it and pulling at it till half the unfortunate Tompkins' shirt was dragged about his neck. "Here, what's the meaning of this? Treachery, eh?"

He eyed the delinquent fiercely. The wearing of this red tie was not only an insult to Ranleigh on such a day, but it was clear disobedience of orders. Had he not himself, the great Masters, commanded all the small boys of One South to don the School colours?

"Just you hop right off to the school, kid," he commanded severely. "If you ain't back here in double quick time with that tie, why – well, you'll see. Just fancy a Ranleigh fellow sporting a red tie on a day like this! Here, hook it, my beauty."

"But – but," expostulated the unhappy Tompkins – "but, Masters, I say – "

"Don't you say it then," declared that young gentleman fiercely. "Just hook it, quick."

"But it's no good going to the school," said Tompkins, determined to have a hearing. "You see – "

"I don't. Now, look here," began Masters, getting red in the face, for it began to look as if Tompkins would defy him, and already Bert was grinning that nasty satirical grin of his which angered other members of the Old Firm besides Masters. "I'm not going to stand your gas. You – "

"I tell you it's no good," cried his victim stubbornly. "What's the good of going to the school for a thing that isn't there?"

"Not there? Here, you're kidding."

"I'm not. Franklin's got the tie. He's wearing it now. He's got something to say to you."

Tompkins was beginning to regain confidence. Masters was as red as any beetroot. The mention of Franklin brought something unpleasant to his memory. If he could he would have closed this discussion promptly. But his victim meant him to have the whole story.

"You see, Masters," he said, "Franklin says he sold you the tie at the beginning of the term. You were to pay ninepence for it. You never did. Franklin says you gave him a fives ball, and that isn't anything like worth the tie. So he's taken it. He wanted one, you see. He's wearing it now. If you want me to have it you'd better ask him for it."

Masters growled. He recollected the transaction. "Why, that beast Franklin has got the tie and fives ball as well," he shouted.

"And says you owe him ninepence still," grinned Tompkins, while Bert and Clive and Hugh joined in the merriment.

"Owe him ninepence still!" their unfortunate comrade exclaimed, with every sign of righteous indignation.

"Yes, for hire," grinned Tompkins. "And, of course, our bargain's off. Franklin says he means to have his money, too, without waiting. He's bigger than you, Masters. I'd pay it if I were in your shoes."

Whereat the worthy Tompkins took himself off, secretly grinning, while the great Masters nursed his wrath and put up with the gibes and fun of his fellows. Not that he was ragged for long, for the two teams were now in position. Bagshaw brought the new match-ball and placed it in the middle of the circle marked in the very centre of the ground. Then he retired towards the touch-line, inspected his watch, pulled his whistle from his pocket, nodded to each Captain in turn, and then blew a shrill blast upon it.

They were off. Norman, playing centre-forward, kicked the ball across to Sturton, next on his left. The latter dribbled it neatly past a couple of the opponents and sent it on to Harper, on the outside left. The latter, seeing a crowd converging on him, kicked it right across to Bell, on the right of the field. But the enemy's half was down upon him in a moment. The ball hurtled back towards the Ranleigh goal, was headed by Jones Tertius, Ranleigh's half-back, so celebrated for his tactics, was jogged on a little by Harper, and was then taken in hand by Riseau, inside right, a quick and clever player. The watching crowds held their breath as the leather was rushed up toward the Parkland posts. Riseau passed neatly to his left, and well within the Parkland line Harper centred. But there the rush ended. A huge fellow, one of the enemy's backs, pounced upon the ball, lifted it a couple of yards high with a neat movement of his foot, and punted it over the heads of the players.

"Down on it, Parkland. Now's your chance!" bellowed the visitors, while Ranleigh fellows looked on in terror. The rush in the opposite direction was, in fact, swifter even than had been the previous one undertaken by Ranleigh fellows. Barlow shouted to his outside left. The man centred, and at once the Captain of the visiting team sent a shot at the goal which, but for Moon, would have succeeded. But Moon was a treasure. Ranleigh chaps shouted his name till they were hoarse. To this day, and for many a day to come, his prowess in goal will be remembered at the school. For Moon was a huge fellow, an ox in size and weight and muscular development. His arms were of the size of the average fellow's legs, and when he hit out his blows were terrific. See him then waiting for that shot between the posts of Ranleigh's goal. Not flurried, not at all, for Moon was an old hand. Watching eagerly and keenly, balanced on his toes, ready to spring to the rescue. And see what followed. Moon's right fist swung out, clad in its leather glove. Even Sturton could not have kicked the ball harder. Moon's terrific blow sent it soaring away over the heads of the players to the centre of the field, thus saving the goal for Ranleigh. Ah! They know at Ranleigh how to encourage a man, how to show their approval. The groan which went up from the lips of the visitors, their grumbles at their want of fortune, were drowned out of hearing by the shrill yells of Ranleigh boys, by their mad cheers and cries of delight. It was magnificent! Clive felt quite overcome. Masters declared that a testimonial must be given to Moon to mark this noble occasion, and would, in fact, have commenced a collection at once had not Susanne, knowing him somewhat thoroughly, declined to part with even a penny.

But the ball was being dealt with actively again. Ranleigh swept it well out of their own ground and sent it over the touch-line within easy distance of the enemy's goal. A moment later "Hands" was given against the home team, while the rush which followed the free kick carried the ball within the circle directly in front of Ranleigh goal. Then Moon pounced upon the leather, slipped, and fell in the mire. The greasy ball squeezed out of his hands as a pip shoots from an orange, there was frantic kicking for some few seconds, and then, to the bellows of the Parkland boys and groans of the Ranleigh fellows, it was kicked between the posts by Barlow.

Clive looked desperately at his fellows. "One to Parkland," he said. "They're awful hot. Think we'll be able to stop 'em?"

Susanne nodded his head cheerily. He was feeling just as anxious as the rest. But cheerfulness was half the battle with the Frenchman.

"You wait," he said, chewing a pencil. If he had been away from the school and its surroundings he would have had a cigarette between his lips. For the weed, he often asserted, consoled him wonderfully. "You wait till after half. Sturton'll give 'em socks then. Our chaps haven't started."

It was evident enough that Ranleigh had on this occasion been taken by surprise. The sudden rush of the enemy and the unfortunate slip of Moon had resulted in their undoing. But Sturton showed no signs of dismay as he led the men back into their own ground.

"Go steady," he whispered to them. "No rushing after this. Of course, push 'em for all you know, but keep well in hand. I'm going to stake everything on the last half of the game. By then they'll be cooked if they're not as fit as fiddles."

When at length Bagshaw's whistle went for half-time, and slices of lemon were brought out to the players, the score stood at three to one, Ranleigh having secured but a single goal.

"But you'll run up the score when we get going again," declared Bagshaw hopefully, as he chatted with the men during the interval. "I'll swear their chaps aren't as fit as we are. They've been going hammer and tongs all the while, and have only two more goals than we have. You chaps must push them hard. Make the running from the very commencement."

If Bagshaw was hopeful, others of Ranleigh School were not. There was now an air of depression about the fellows. The cheering of late had hardly been so loud or so enthusiastic. Clive wrapped his overcoat a little closer round him, for he felt positively chilly, while even Susanne looked less cheerful. As for Masters, it was a bitter day. He had hoped to be able to look down on Parkland fellows. If he were to be hoarse for a week after, it would have been fine to shout them down, to answer cheer for cheer. And now it looked as if they would do all the cheering. Also, to add to his depression, Franklin found him at half-time and became disgustingly insistent.

"You'll just jolly well pay up that ninepence or get kicked, young Masters," he said. "It's bad enough to have to lose a match like this, for I suppose that that's what's going to happen. I ain't going to lose money as well."

"But – but I swapped a fives ball," pleaded Masters feebly. "That's worth sixpence."

"Most are; yours wasn't. It went to pieces first game; it was a rotter," declared Franklin harshly. "None of your bunkum. That ninepence or a kicking."

It was no wonder that Masters welcomed the renewal of the game; though, to be sure, he was now silent. But in a little while he had almost regained his cheerfulness. For Sturton and his men were making the pace. Instead of playing on the defensive, they were carrying the war into the enemy's country. Within five minutes, in fact, they had scored a goal, whereat Ranleigh applauded vociferously.

"Just watch them closely, you fellows," Barlow cautioned his Parkland eleven, as they went back into their own ground for the kick off. "That was simply a rush. We got our first from them in the same way. Hold together and keep the ball always in their half."

"Well done," commented Sturton. "Don't let 'em rest. We're fit enough to keep at it hard till the whistle goes. So push 'em, boys."

How magnificently Moon used his fists! The shots which the Parkland team made at the home goal might easily have succeeded. But Moon made light of them. He always seemed to be in the right place and at the very right moment, while his ponderous blows sent the ball flying far from the goal. But if he had his work to do, so also had the keeper of the Parkland goal. Within ten minutes of the recommencement of play, Harper sent in a shot which struck one of the posts with a thud and scared the visitors. It brought a howl of delight and encouragement from the Ranleigh fellows.

"Pitch 'em in hard," Clive found himself shouting frantically. "Bravo, Sturton! Well done, Norman! Hooray for Ranleigh!"

But time went on swiftly. In spite of every effort, and in spite also of the almost obvious fact that Parkland men were hard pressed and none too fit, Sturton and his team had not yet equalled the score of the enemy. Ranleigh's score still stood at two, against three by Parkland, and time was terribly short.

"Play up, Ranleigh!" screamed the boys. "Stick to it, Parkland!" shouted the visitors. Sturton looked about him coolly, though there was anxiety in his eyes. He called to his men curtly. "Now, Ranleigh," he said. "Time's almost up. Let's do something."

They backed him up manfully. That brilliant little half who had nursed his forwards assiduously all through the game got the ball when all alone and dribbled it swiftly toward Parkland's goal. Ranleigh forwards were then well in advance, and a well-placed kick sent the leather neatly amongst them. Sturton passed with the rapidity of lightning to Harper, at the same time stepping aside to evade the frantic rush of one of the visitors' backs. Harper rushed the ball still closer to the goal, passed it to his nearest man, had it sent back within the instant and lost it. But that little half was there to support. He jogged the leather upward. A Parkland man got in a punt, sending the ball to a great height. There the wind caught it. Sturton, watching its flight, rushed in to meet its fall. A man charged him. He slid aside, and just in the nick of time headed the leather. A roar of cheering told him that he had been successful.

"A drawn game. Well, that's better than last time, when it was six to two," said Clive. "But it's rotten luck. Our chaps are heaps the better. Play up, you fellows!" he yelled, almost angrily.

And Ranleigh did play up. The eleven had seen Bagshaw consulting his watch with some anxiety and knew that there could now be but a couple of minutes left in which to finish the game. Parkland fellows knew it also, and were as keen to win as Ranleigh. Off went the ball again. Visitors and Ranleighan spectators of the game kept up a continuous roar, which might have been heard right down in the village. Scarves were waved aloft. Fellows tore up and down the field at the back of the spectators. Even masters were stirred out of their usual calm. But it seemed to no purpose. The ball oscillated round about the centre of the field for what seemed ages. Then the visiting team took it triumphantly along with them, and sent a long shot at Ranleigh goal which plumped straight for the centre.

"Done!" groaned Clive, hardly daring to look.

"Good old Moon!" shouted Susanne and Hugh together. "Moon's done for 'em. He's sent the ball back to our fellows."

It was an old trick of the Ranleigh goalkeeper. It may be doubted whether there are many goalkeepers who could put up a similar performance, for, as we have said, the Goliath in Ranleigh goal could strike with his fists harder almost than the average fellow could kick. In any case, he gave the ball a terrific buffet, sending it spinning back to the Ranleigh forwards. It was then that the fellows stood on their toes in their anxiety. Harper had the leather and muffed it. Sturton somehow managed to gain possession. It shot across to the far left a moment later, was rushed forward by the outside left, dribbled across to the inside man, and then sent flying between the Parkland posts. Perhaps ten seconds later, while yells of delight still filled the air, the whistle of the referee was heard blowing.

"Look here, Franklin," said Masters, meeting him some few minutes later. "Blow those colours. I don't care whether I owe you ninepence or nine bob. Come to the tuck for a blow-out. Ranleigh's won, my boy. A chap can't afford to quarrel about mere pennies on such a glorious occasion."

They chaired Sturton from the field. A pack of juniors endeavoured to do the same for Moon, but broke down under the ponderous burden. Even Parkland fellows cheered, for they were sportsmen.

"You played us a fine game and beat us handsomely," said Barlow, taking Sturton's proffered hand with a smile of friendship. "I hope you chaps will give us a return. My word, the improvement is an eye-opener!"

"And due to the new method," said the Head of Ranleigh that evening, when Sturton and the eleven took dinner with him. "This historic match is an answer to all critics. The School has much to thank our Captain for. The improvement in tone and fitness is wonderful."

Well, the day was done, the battle was fought and won, and Ranleigh was weary of triumph and happiness.

"Good night," whispered Susanne to Clive.

"Good night," came the answer. "Er – I say, Susanne."

"Eh?"

"There's one thing."

"Heaps," was the sleepy response.

"Yes, but I'm serious. I'm going to stick to footer till I get into the team. Hear that?"

"Mighty interesting," yawned Susanne. "Wake me up when you've got there, and, by the way, don't forget to speak when you are Captain."

Clive grew red with vexation. For he was serious, very serious indeed. In his own secret mind he registered that night a resolve to grow up as fine a fellow as Sturton, to fight his way into the football eleven, and – the biggest resolve of all – to even ascend to the glories of Captain of Ranleigh.

"I'll do it," he mumbled as he fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVI

A GREAT DISTURBANCE

Time waits for no one, and that statement was as true of Ranleigh boys as of any others. Clive Darrell, in a mere twinkling as it seemed, had become quite an old stager at the school. Since that momentous match when Sturton had led his eleven to victory, thereby stimulating Clive to declare the most ambitious of sentiments, two and a half years had slipped by, two and half years which had seen great changes at Ranleigh.

"But always the Old Firm hangs on and exists," reflected Bert, as he sat on the table in Upper Sixth and stared into the fire. "I remember the term when Harvey left."

"One of the best," interjected Susanne, now no longer a gawky, ill-dressed youth, given to smoking cigarettes on every occasion, but spick-and-span, as immaculate as Rawlings, very English in appearance, and looking quite twenty-one years of age, for the great Susanne sported a moustache, and could, had he wished it, as he often declared, have grown a beard even.