But, monstrous or not, such _was_ the decision and there was no appeal from it. There was a moment of intense silence, and then a moan went up from the Trimbleites and a roar of triumph from the Chowdlerites as the shot which should have equalised, passed just over, instead of under, the bar. For the next twenty minutes the Chowdlerite goal was literally bombarded. Excitement, it is true, made the shooting rather erratic; but, time after time, it looked as if the citadel must fall. And it _would_ have fallen, but for Cheeny. When le Willow received his mortal wound, Cheeny had stepped into his place as leader; and he was everywhere. It is the right thing in the Chiltern game for the leader to be everywhere; that is one of the features that has made of the Chiltern game the great moral training that it is. So Cheeny did his best to be ubiquitous, and played such a game as had not been played in Colonus within the memory of that generation--falling, rising, charging and being charged, stopping rushes, intercepting passes and spoiling shots. And, after each unsuccessful attack on the Chowdlerite goal, Mr. Trimble said calmly, “That settles it! Silly asses! They deserve to be beaten!” As for Mr. Chowdler, the perspiration stood on his brow and there was a note of almost despairing appeal in his familiar rallying cry, “Good lads! Good lads all! Stick _to_ it, stick _to_ it!” But slowly, at the back of his mind, a purpose was shaping itself--a resolve that, if the impossible _did_ happen and Cheeny kept the goal intact, then Cheeny should be his Prefect. For a lad with such nerve and courage had proved himself fit to govern, even though he were rather low in the school. Meanwhile, as the minutes slipped away, the excitement grew and grew, and there was one continuous roar of Chowd_lers_! Jow_lers_! Trim_bulls_! in all keys and every degree of hoarseness. People leapt into the air, slapped each other on the back, threw their caps on the ground and trampled on them, and performed all manner of strange and inconsequent antics. Ten--eight--six--four minutes more! And then, just at the end, amid howls of delight from their supporters, the defence, with Cheeny at their head, broke away; and, when the whistle blew, the ball was in mid-field and Chowdler’s were left victorious by two goals to one. Mr. Chowdler was swept away by a wave of intense, almost religious, emotion. Foul play, monstrous decisions, past and present wrongs were all forgotten for the moment. If the headmaster had come up and grasped him by the hand, he would have fallen upon the headmaster’s neck--he would have fallen upon _anybody’s_ neck. Never since the relief of Ladysmith, where his own son was beleaguered, had he experienced such a sense of thankfulness, joy, and exultation. Perhaps it was an unconscious association of ideas which made him say to Mr. Tipham as he passed him: “Thank God! We have kept the flag flying!” “Where?” asked Mr. Tipham icily.