“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.”