Warner and Hedge have met them, but still on they come.

The bull-dogs rush in for the last time; they are hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids.

Old Brooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and turning short round, picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and plunges in.

It wavers for a moment; he has the ball.

No, it has passed him, and his voice rings out clear over the advancing tide, "Look out in goal!" Crab Jones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick, the rush is upon him and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them with his straw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.
The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal, not three yards in front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.
There stands the School-house prepostor, safest of goal-keepers, and Tom Brown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time.