after cheers had been given and returned, the pain in his leg reasserted itself once more, and he could only limp very feebly off the field, but he had the delirious happiness of the captain—who was going to Rugby next year, and was therefore very nearly a man—putting his hand on his shoulder and saying, “That was a plucky game of yours, Cole. Hope your leg isn’t bad.” “Oh, it isn’t bad at all, thank you,” he said very politely. “I almost don’t feel it,” which was a terrific lie. He had done well. He knew that from the comments on every side of him. The crowd had forgotten his earlier failure, which, if he had only known it, should have taught him that word of wisdom invaluable to artists and sportsmen alike: “Don’t be discouraged by a bad beginning. It’s the last five minutes that count.” Finally there was Riley. “You didn’t play badly,” he said. “You were better than Millett.” IV Later he was sitting with Riley, squashed into a corner of Magg’s, eating dough-nuts. The crowd in there was terrific and the atmosphere like a slab of chocolate. Riley and he were pressed close together, with boys on every side of them. The noise was deafening. It was the last ten minutes before Magg’s closed. It was Saturday evening, and everyone had pocket-money. The two boys did not speak to one another. Jeremy’s leg was hurting him horribly, but he was as happy as “Five kings and a policeman,” which was one of Uncle Samuel’s ridiculous, meaningless phrases. His arm was round Riley’s neck, more for support than for sentiment, but he did _like_ Riley and he did _like_ Magg’s. He was, perhaps, at that moment as completely alive as he was ever to be. He was so small that he was almost entirely hidden, but somebody caught sight of his hair, which would never lie down flat, and cried across the room, “Three cheers for Stocky, the football hero!” The cheers were hearty if a little absent-minded, the main business of the moment being food, and not football. Jeremy, of course, was pleased, and in his pleasure overbalanced from the edge of the table where he was sitting, slipped forward, and disappeared from men. His leg hurt him too much, and he was too comfortable on the floor and too generally sleepy to bother to get up again, so he stayed there, his arm round Riley’s leg, swallowing his last dough-nut as slowly as possible, feeling that he would like to give dough-nuts in general to all the world. Yes, it had been a _fine_ day, a splendid day, and there would be days and days and days. . . . Magg’s was closing. He limped to his feet, and, with their arms round one another’s necks, Riley and he vanished into the dark. PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E. C.4. F85.823 TRANSCRIBER NOTES Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.