There is a rush of small boys upon the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling together, subdued by the great goddess Thirst, like the English and French by the streams in the Pyrenees.

The leaders are past oranges and apples, but some of them visit their coats, and apply innocent-looking ginger-beer bottles to their mouths.

It is no ginger-beer though, I fear, and will do you no good.

One short mad rush, and then a stitch in the side, and no more honest play.

That's what comes of those bottles.
But now Griffith's baskets are empty, the ball is placed again midway, and the School are going to kick off.