Now is your time, Tom.

The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in together, and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the advancing column--the prepostor on his hands and knees, arching his back, and Tom all along on his face.

Over them topple the leaders of the rush, shooting over the back of the prepostor, but falling flat on Tom, and knocking all the wind out of his small carcass.

"Our ball," says the prepostor, rising with his prize; "but get up there; there's a little fellow under you." They are hauled and roll off him, and Tom is discovered, a motionless body.
Old Brooke picks him up.

"Stand back, give him air," he says; and then feeling his limbs, adds, "No bones broken .-- How do you feel, young un ?" "Hah-hah!" gasps Tom, as his wind comes back; "pretty well, thank you--all right." "Who is he ?" says Brooke.
"Oh, it's Brown; he's a new boy; I know him," says East, coming up.
"Well, he is a plucky youngster, and will make a player," says Brooke.
And five o'clock strikes.