Fantasy Football Challenge - Football Fanatics Library

Fantasy Football Challenge - Library of Books for Football Fanatics

Fantasy Football Challenge presents
The Triple Alliance

24 of 65

"Well, here's a new kid coming; let's set him on to do it. You speak to him; he knows me. His name's Mugford." The two cronies both picked up a handful of stones, and began throwing at the can, taking good care that their shots should fly wide of the mark. Mugford, who, as we have already seen, was not blessed with the sharpest of wits, paused for a moment to watch the contest. The paint had been mixed in an old fruit-tin, and at first sight it certainly seemed to have been put on the post for the sole purpose of being knocked off again. "Hullo, you new kid!" exclaimed Mouler. "Look here, we want a chap for the third eleven next season--a fellow who can throw straight. Come along, and let's see if you can hit that old can." It certainly looked easy enough, and Mugford, pleased at being taken some notice of by a boy in the Upper Fourth, picked up some pebbles, and joined in the bombardment. The second shot brought the tin down with a great clatter, and a flood of white paint spread all over the trim little pathway. At the same instant Oaks dashed down the steps boiling with rage. "Confound you!" he cried; "who did that ?" "I did," answered Mugford, half crying; "I thought it was empty." "Thought it was empty! why didn't you look, you young blockhead?" cried the prefect, catching the small boy by the arm, while Noaks and Mouler burst into a roar of laughter. Things would probably have gone hard with the unfortunate Mugford if at that moment a fifth party had not arrived on the scene. The new-comer, who, from the show of whisker at the side of his face and the tone of authority in which he spoke, seemed to be one of the masters, was tall and muscular, with the bronze of a season's cricketing still upon his cheeks and neck. "Stop a minute, Oaks," he said. "I happened to see this little game; let's hear what the kid's got to say for himself." In faltering tones Mugford told his story. Without a word the stranger stepped up to Mouler and dealt him a sounding box on the ear. "There!" he said, "take that for your trouble; and now cut off down town and buy a fresh pot of paint out of your own pocket, and do it jolly quick, too.--As for you," he added, turning to Noaks, "get a spade out of that place under the pavilion and clean up this path. If you weren't a new fellow I'd serve you the same. Look out in future." "And you look out too," muttered Noaks, glancing at Mugford with a fierce expression on his face as the two seniors moved off, "you beastly young sneak. The first chance I get I'll give you the best licking you ever had in your life." "Old Mug is rather a fool," remarked Jack Vance to Diggory a few hours later; "he ought to have seen through that. But we must stand by him because of the Triple Alliance. Noaks is sure to try to set on him the first chance he gets." "Yes," answered Diggory; "look out for squalls." CHAPTER VIII. THIRD FORM ORATORY. At the end of the first fortnight our three friends had begun to find their feet at Ronleigh, and the sense of being "outsiders" in everything was gradually wearing off as they grew more intimate with their schoolfellows. Jack Vance and Diggory soon became popular members of "The Happy Family," and their loyalty to Mugford caused the latter's path to be much smoother than it probably would have been had he been compelled to tread it alone. Carton turned out a capital fellow; Rathson, the small, sandy-haired boy mentioned in the previous chapter, and who generally went by the name of "Rats," took a great fancy to Jack; while Maxton repeated his assertion that young Trevanock was "the right sort," and as a further mark of his favour presented the new-comer with a moleskin of his own curing, which looked very nice, but, as "Rats" put it, "smelt rather fruity." But it was not in the Third Form only that Diggory began to find friends; for by a lucky chance he was fortunate enough to make a good impression on the minds of the great men, who, as a rule, took no further notice of the small fry than to exact from them a certain amount of obedience, or in default a certain number of lines or other "impots." One morning, soon after breakfast, a little group was gathered round Carton's desk in the big school-room, discussing the value of some foreign stamps, when a small boy came up to them, saying,-- "Is Trevanock here? Well, Acton wants you now at once in his study." "Hullo," said Carton, looking up from the sheet of specimens in front of him--"hullo, Diggy! What have you been up to?" "I haven't been doing anything," answered the other. "What do you think he wants me for?" "I don't know, but it sounds rather like getting a licking. At all events, you'd better hurry up; prefects don't thank you for keeping them waiting. His is the third door on the right as you go down the passage." Diggory hastened to obey the summons, wondering what it could mean. He found the door, and in answer to the loud "Come in!" which greeted his knock turned the handle, and found himself for the first time inside one of the Sixth Form studies. It was a small, square room, and looked very cosy and comfortable with its red window-curtains, well-filled bookshelf, and many little knick-knacks that adorned the walls and mantelpiece. An array of silver cups, several photographs of cricket and football teams, and a miscellaneous pile of bats, fencing-sticks, Indian clubs, etc., standing in one corner, all spoke of the athlete; while carelessly thrown down on the top of a cupboard was an article for the possession of which many a, boy would have bartered the whole of his worldly wealth--a bit of worn blue velvet and the tarnished remnant of what had once been a gold tassel--the "footer cap" of Ronleigh College. But it was not so much the furniture as the occupants of the study that attracted Diggory's attention. John Acton, a tall, wiry fellow, who looked as though his whole body was as hard and tough as whip-cord, was standing leaning on the end of the mantelpiece talking to another of the seniors, who sat sprawling in a folding-chair on the other side of the fire; while seated at the table, turning over the leaves of what appeared to be a big manuscript book, was no less a personage than Allingford, the school captain. "I don't understand a bit what's coming to 'Thirsty,'" the football

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