prevailing fury and fought on different sides. On
the morning of the encounter every one was
arrayed in the worst and most ancient clothes
the house could furnish, so as to feel no
restraint from the fear of falls, or mud, or wet.
By ten o'clock the two armies were drawn up
in two lines, while in the centre, at about fifty
feet from each line—measured with jealous
nicety—was the football, lying by itself. Bob
Davis, the leader of the French—for national
antipathy was always encouraged and
Jacky Smith, the English captain—swift runners
and men whose giant strength of leg and
daring was looked up to with fond admiration—
stood buttoned up tight, each with a leg out and
breathing hard, waiting for the signal. It was
felt that the shock between the two would be
tremendous, for there was a feeling of personal
rivalry besides. A rusty old cannon, fired with
great caution in the garden, was the signal,
and the two lines set off at desperate speed,
and with wildness met in the middle like knights
at a tournament. Bob Davis got the first kick,
and I fear there was on that day laid the
foundation of an enmity between these two heroes.

These were desperate battles. They went on
to one or two o'clock. It was wonderful to see
our coarse strong fellows, who were desperately
deficient at their books, how savagely they threw
themselves into the work. It was to be no
child's play with them, so any one who had a
mind for amateuring had best keep out of their
way. They kicked desperately and recklessly,
as the writer hereof can testify, bearing away
from the field, after such an encounter, a
shattered shin–bone, the scar of which endureth
still. When two of these heroes met, it was
fearful; evil passions were aroused; and their
outward appearance, all mud–stained and dirty
from many a fall and roll upon the ground,
with the circular muddy stamp of the ball upon
the left cheek, from a savage and well–directed
"shot," bore an awful and terror–striking aspect.
I have seen a warrior levelled flat by a splendid
"shot," which came low and "stinging," and
took him on the side of the head with a loud
report. Frantic cries and even yells greeted this
exploit, and the battle raged afresh, his
partisans striving to avenge his fall. The most
exciting moment was when one party—say the
French—finding the day going against them,
came with an organised rush and charge,
artfully contriving what was called "a squash."
This was the Forlorn Hope of the game, and it
often succeeded. The struggle was made to
begin near the enemy's gates, the ball was
craftily held firm between the feet of a strong
French giant. His friends gathered about him,
packing themselves as close as they could, and
thus a sort of "heart" being formed, everybody
came rushing up, and, laying their shoulders
and back against the heap, tried desperately to
push the whole mass, ball and all, through. But
the other side would know their danger; they
would rush in also, striving to break it up, and
set the ball free. The enormous mass heaved to
and fro, and cracked and groaned, now eddying
forward, now lurching backward, until at last it
was carried through, or else the attack was
routed. Sometimes there were desperate
disputes; the ball had been on the verge of going
through, on the nice indistinct line, and had been
driven back. Then came a Babel of frantic cries,
Grimed captains, with perspiration running down
the faces and percolating the comic stains on the
corners of the mouths, and "bunged–up" eyes,
frantically and savagely debated the point.
Then Bob Davis and Jacky Smith, each more
grotesque for his scars, came rushing up, and
interchanged angry words. These warriors all
but proposed settling the matter there and then,
according to the usage common among gentlemen,
had not a master (a grotesque peace–
maker himself, with a swelled mouth and battered
helmet) promptly interfered and parted them.
Then, when the clock struck the last hour, what
shouting and proclamation of victory! And it
was long remembered how an eager master,
flushed with the triumph his own good legs had
not a little contributed to gain, had been seen
at a window, frantically firing out pistols over
the heads of the procession passing below. Not
the least unpleasing part was the ceremony
that took place at dinner; when at second
course, to the modest soldiers who had
distinguished themselves in battle was publicly
distributed an extra pancake in reward of their
efforts. Neither medal, nor even pecuniary
recompense, could have been half so welcome.

This was for winter; but the summer days
and summer evenings had their charms also.
As on a June Sunday evening, when the whole
house gathered for the DOUBLE CRICKET—an
inspiriting pastime peculiar to Our School.
Here again we have two sides, each about
eighty strong. The "wickets" are two stones,
like milestones, placed rather nearer than the
common wickets; and the balls are large
"softish" balls, double the size of a cricket–
ball, and covered with white leather. Now the
fun begins. The eighty "go in," and the other
eighty stand out, to "fag" and field; only the
fielding consists in standing in as close as
possible, and blocking every possible issue for the
ball. The bowling is not bowling, but a swift
jerk. The ground is very hard, and very like a
macadamised road. The result is a scene of
roaring and delightful animation. A man is
jerked out about every ten seconds; if he hits the
ball awry, it is stopped a few yards away.
His vis–à–vis has begun to run; all the world
is roaring frantically to him to run, and he gets
bewildered, and is happily put out in a second.
The sound of the flop of the ball on the milestone
is very satisfactory, and is always greeted
with delight. There is fresh satisfaction, too,
in its not being so hard as a cricket–ball, and
every one hurls it straight at the stone with
utter recklessness as to the limbs of the batsman.
The scene of confusion, the rapidity
with which batters are toppled over, like nine–
pins, by a masterly bowler; the shouting, and
roaring, and laughter, and the yell of applause
when the dashing batsman has sent the ball
well in the air over the heads of all the eighty;
make up a most exhilarating scene to think of.