The kick-off from the twenty-five line which followed upon the small discussion alluded to above, reached Graham. Under ordinary circumstances he would have kicked, but in a winning game original methods often pay. He dodged a furious sportsman in green and yellow, and went away down the touch-line. He was almost through when he stumbled. He recovered himself, but too late. Before he could pass, someone was on him. Graham was not heavy, and his opponent was muscular. He was swung off his feet, and the next moment the two came down together, Graham underneath. A sharp pain shot through his shoulder. A doctor emerged from the crowd--there is always a doctor in a crowd--and made an examination. 'Anything bad?' asked the referee. 'Collar-bone,' said the doctor. 'The usual, you know. Rather badly smashed. Nothing dangerous, of course. Be all right in a month or so. Stop his playing. Rather a pity. Much longer before half-time?' 'No. I was just going to blow the whistle when this happened.' The injured warrior was carried off, and the referee blew his whistle for half-time. 'I say, Charteris,' said MacArthur, 'who the deuce am I to put half instead of Graham?' 'Rogers used to play half in his childhood, I believe. But, I say, did you ever see such a scrag? Can't you protest, or something?' 'My dear chap, how can I? It's on our own ground. These Bargee beasts are visitors, if you come to think of it. I'd like to wring the chap's neck who did it. I didn't spot who it was. Did you see?' 'Rather. Their secretary. That man with the beard. I'll get Prescott to mark him this half.' Prescott was the hardest tackler in the School. He accepted the commission cheerfully, and promised to do his best by the bearded one. Charteris certainly gave him every opportunity. When he threw the ball out of touch, he threw it neatly to the criminal with the beard, and Prescott, who stuck to him closer than a brother, had generally tackled him before he knew what had happened. After a time he began to grow thoughtful, and when there was a line-out went and stood among the three-quarters. In this way much of Charteris's righteous retribution miscarried, but once or twice he had the pleasure and privilege of putting in a piece of tackling on his own account. The match ended with the enemy still intact, but considerably shaken. He was also rather annoyed. He spoke to Charteris on the subject as they were leaving the field. 'I was watching you,' he said, _apropos_ of nothing apparently. 'That must have been nice for you,' said Charteris. 'You wait.' 'Certainly. Any time you're passing, I'm sure--' 'You ain't 'eard the last of me yet.' 'That's something of a blow,' said Charteris cheerfully, and they parted. Charteris, having got into his blazer, ran after Welch and MacArthur, and walked back with them to the House. All three of them were at Merevale's. 'Poor old Tony,' said MacArthur. 'Where have they taken him to? The House?'