'Well, you have got cheek,' said Beetle enviously.
'Slipped out before I thought. But he wasn't a bit angry. He's no end of a chap. I swear I'm goin' to play up like beans. Tell Turkey!'
The technique of that match belongs to a bygone age. Scrimmages were tight and enduring; hacking was direct and to the purpose; and round the scrimmage stood the school, crying, 'Put down your heads and shove!' Toward the end everybody lost all sense of decency, and mothers of day-boys too close to the touch-line heard language not included in the bills. No one was actually carried off the field, but both sides felt happier when time was called, and Beetle helped Stalky and M'Turk into their overcoats. The two had met in the many-legged heart of things, and as Stalky said, had 'done each other proud.' As they swaggered woodenly behind the teams—substitutes do not rank as equals of hairy men—they passed a pony-carriage near the wall, and a husky voice cried, 'Well played. Oh, played indeed!' It was Stettson major, white-cheeked and hollow-eyed, who had fought his way to the ground under escort of an impatient coachman.
'Hullo, Stettson,' said Stalky, checking. 'Is it safe to come near you yet?'
'Oh yes. I'm all right. They wouldn't let me out before, but I had to come to the match. Your mouth looks pretty plummy.'
'Turkey trod on it accidental-done-a-purpose. Well, I'm glad you're better, because we owe you
