“What d’you take any notice of those rotters for?” said Stalky, playing substitute for the Old Boys, magnificent in black jersey, white knickers, and black stockings. “I talked to _him_ up in the dormitory when he was changin’. Pulled his sweater down for him. He’s cut about all over the arms--horrid purply ones. He’s goin’ to tell us about it to-night. I asked him to when I was lacin’ his boots.” “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 around 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 McTurk 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-checked 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 something. You and your membranes got us into a sweet mess, young man.” “I heard of that,” said the boy, giggling. “The Head told me.” “Dooce he did! When?” “Oh, come on up to Coll. My shin’ll stiffen if we stay jawin’ here.” “Shut up, Turkey. I want to find out about this. Well?” “He was stayin’ at our house all the time I was ill.” “What for? Neglectin’ the Coll. that way? ’Thought he was in town.” “I was off my head, you know, and they said I kept on callin’ for him.” “Cheek! You’re only a day-boy.” “He came just the same, and he about saved my life. I was all bunged up one night--just goin’ to croak, the doctor said--and they stuck a tube or somethin’ in my throat, and the Head sucked out the stuff.” “Ugh! ’Shot if _I_ would!” “He ought to have got diphtheria himself, the doctor said. So he stayed on at our house instead of going back. I’d ha’ croaked in another twenty minutes, the doctor says.” Here the coachman, being under orders, whipped up and nearly ran over the three. “My Hat!” said Beetle. “That’s pretty average heroic.”