My dear sir, a battle would look much the same to you, except that the boys would be men, and the balls iron; but a battle would be worth your looking at for all that, and so is a football match. You can't be expected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, and turns by which a game is lost and won-it takes an old player to do that, but the broad philosophy of football you can understand if you will. Come along with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together

predicament
affirmative

abominably
agitated

absurdity
adversaries

THE FOOTBALL GAME-II

The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and they close rapidly around it in a scrummage ; it must be driven through now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other. Look how differently the boys face it! Here come two of the bulldogs, bursting through the outsiders; in they go, straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side. That is what they mean to do. My sons, my sons! you are too hot; you have gone past the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and get round and back again to your own side, before you can be of any further use.

Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, but keeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the ball, and driving it furiously when he gets a chance. Take a leaf out of his book, you young chargers. Here comes Speedicut, and Flashman the schoolhouse bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up to young Brooke, after locking up, by the schoolhouse fire, with "Old fellow, was n't that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees!"

But he knows you, and so do we. You don't really want to drive that ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt for the glory of the schoolhouse — but to make us think that's what you want—a vastly different thing; and fellows of your kidney will never go through more than the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We respect boys who keep out of it, and don't sham going in; but you - we had rather not say what we think of you.

Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them they are most useful players, the dodgers, who seize on the ball the moment it rolls out from among the chargers, and away with it across to the opposite goal; they seldom go into the scrummage, but must have more coolness than the chargers: as endless as are boys' characters, so are their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at football.

Three quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight and numbers beginning to tell. Yard by

yard the schoolhouse have been driven back, contesting every inch of ground. The bulldogs are the color of mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who has a marvelous knack of keeping his legs. The schoolhouse are being penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal, under the doctor's wall. The doctor and some of his family are there looking on, and seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the schoolhouse.

We get a minute's breathing time before old Brooke kicks out, and he gives the word to play strongly for touch, by the three trees. Away goes the ball, and the bulldogs after it, and in another minute there is a shout of, "In touch," "Our ball." Now's your time, old Brooke, while your men are still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two sides form in deep lines opposite one another: he must strike it straight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but young Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up further, where the opposite line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his brother.

Hurrah! that rush has taken it right through the school line, and away past the three trees, far into their quarters, and young Brooke and the bulldogs are close upon it. The school leaders rush back shouting, "Look out in goal,” and strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after

the fleetest foot in Rugby. There they go straight for the school goal posts, quarters scattering before them. One after another the bulldogs go down, but young Brooke holds on. "He is down." No! a long stagger, and the danger is past; that was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And now he is close to the school goal, the ball not three yards before him. There is a hurried rush of the school fags to the spot, but no one throws himself on the ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has touched it right under the school goal posts. The school leaders come up furious, and administer toco to the wretched fags nearest at hand: they may well be for it is all Lombard Street to a china orange that angry, the schoolhouse kick a goal with the ball touched in such a good place. Old Brooke of course will kick it out, but who shall catch and place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes, sauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish in Rugby: if he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just pick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning a hair.

But it is a moment when the boldest charger's heart beats quick. Old Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the school back; he will not kick out till they are all in a goal, behind the posts; they are all edging forward, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at Crab Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to