satisfactory.

The umpire looked at his watch, and in answer to a query from Mr. Fox
said, "Five minutes more."

"Look here, Acton," said Mr. Blake: "let me take your place, and you go
back. Do all you can to stop them if they come."

The ball was thrown out of touch; Mr. Blake got it, and in a few seconds
the fight was raging in the very mouth of the enemy's goal. Morris put
in a capital shot; but the ball glanced off one of the players, and went
behind.

"Corner!" cried Mr. Blake. "I'll take it. Now you fellows get it
through somehow or other!"

"Mark your men, Horace House!" cried Mr. Fox. The next moment every one
was shoving and elbowing with their eyes fixed on the ball as it flew
through the air. It dropped in exactly the right place, and Jack Vance,
by some happy fluke, kicked it just as it touched the ground. Like a
big round shot it whizzed through the posts, and there was a rapturous
yell of "_Goal!_"

The delight of the Birchites at having beaten their opponents was
unbounded, and when, a short time later, the latter retired with a score
against them of one to nil. Jack Vance was seized by a band of
applauding comrades, who, with his head about a couple of feet lower
than his heels, carried him in triumph across the playground, and
staggered half-way up the steep garden path, when Acton happening to
tread on a loose pebble brought the whole procession to grief, and