As if suddenly imbued with the spirit of the game Arthur began to show determination. A boy flew at him. Arthur handed him off with violence. “_Let_ me alone!” he cried, suddenly very wrath. Another essayed to tackle him. Arthur struggled clear of his grasp but overbalanced and let go the ball. Immediately another boy had sprung forward and gathered it. Arthur shot after him. He suddenly understood. Everybody was against him. He had to get the ball and everybody was trying to steal it away. The sole idea of the game was that he should be allowed to run about the field holding the ball, and they were all cheating. They wouldn’t let him do it. He caught the thief by his jersey and tugged him back. His fierce cries sounded across the field. “Give it to me! Give it to me! Give it to _me_!” He had nearly got it. Somebody pulled him back, and he struggled in his grasp. “Let me to the ball,” he besought, sobbing with bitterness. “Oh, _let_ me to the ball.” So they stood back and let him to the ball. Rouse had signed to them. He had it at last. He smiled gleefully. He begun to trot up the field like a pup with a slipper. He looked from side to side as if for applause, began to raise his knees higher and higher from the ground. Rouse ran joyously beside him, pointing out the distant goal-line as if it were a promised land and instructing him what to do. He was delighted beyond measure. He did not know that everybody was standing about the field watching him go, and trying to throttle hysteric laughter. He thought that he was the hero of the hour. At last they were nearly there. It was a good thing because he was beginning to puff. [Illustration: “HE BEGAN TO TROT UP THE FIELD LIKE A PUP WITH A SLIPPER.”] “Put it on that line,” said Rouse. “Put it down there, then touch it down.” He had arrived. He bent obediently and did as he was bid. “There you are,” said Rouse happily. “You’ve scored a try.” Arthur turned and looked round and about. Everywhere boys were throwing caps into the air and cheering. It was a great moment. Toby had come up and seemed to be speaking to him, but in the wild noise of applause he could not distinguish a word. He grinned broadly. At last the thunder of cheers died down. “That’s Rugger,” said Toby. “It’s a great game. Don’t you think so? You’ll play it all your life now. That’s your first game and you’ll never forget it.” He never did. Nobody who learns Rugger at Harley ever does. * * * * * The boy who had sat in the corner had been learning Rugger that afternoon too, and as he walked slowly off the field a tall fellow, considerably older than he, came up and touched him on the arm. “What on earth are _you_ doing here?” Bobbie Carr looked up, then slowly seemed to remember, and to the other it appeared that he turned a little pale. At first he made no answer. He just looked. Eventually he turned away. The other still held his arm.