Billy Bunter's Bolt by Frank Richards

Author:Frank Richards [Richards, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Published: 0100-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

NARROW ESCAPE FOR SMITHY

'GOAL!'

'Good old Smithy!'

'Goal! '

Herbert Vernon-Smith grinned breathlessly. Smithy was enjoying life. The keen air, the healthy game, the excitement of an uphill tussle against a strong opposing team, had banished less wholesome matters from his mind. He had forgotten Quelch: forgotten that hasty smack on his head: forgotten his disgruntled brooding over vengeance: and he looked quite unlike the sulky, sullen fellow with whom Harry Wharton and Co. had argued before the football match. Tom Redwing, looking on with a crowd of other fellows, had a cheery smile on his face. This was how he liked to see his chum, with a healthy flush in his face, a sparkle in his eyes, playing a hard game, and enjoying every minute of it.

The game had been hard and fast. The Shell were, as Harry Wharton had said, a hefty team for the Lower Fourth to tackle: and the Remove men had to go all out, and a little more, if they could. Smithy, on the right wing, was invaluable: even Harry Wharton at centre-forward, or Johnny Bull in goal, was not of more use to the side. It had gone on, ding-dong, with good play on both sides, without a score, till close on the finish. Fellows were glancing up at the clock-tower. It looked like a draw. 0—0 : till, at length, the Bounder found the net. With a long shot from the wing, a shot that nine fellows in ten would have said could never come off, Smithy landed the leather: it grazed a goal-post, just tapped finger-tips that clutched a second too late, and landed safe and sound— and every Remove man on the ground yelled 'Goal' at the top of his voice.

The whistle went. Bob Cherry rushed up to the Bounder, and delivered a mighty smack on his shoulder that made him totter.

'Good old Smithy!' he chuckled.

'Good man! Good man!' exclaimed Harry Wharton.

The captain of the Remove quite forgot that, not very long ago, he had called Smithy a 'rotter'. Smithy was now a man whom he delighted to honour!

The Bounder grinned. All the more because it was on the stroke of time, he revelled in that goal. Smithy had a taste for the dramatic! Right up to the finish it had looked like a draw: and he had pulled the game out of the fire. The Shell were beaten—one—nil.

He dodged another hearty smack from Bob Cherry.

Bob's smacks were rather too hearty for comfort.

'Better than ragging Quelch, what?' chuckled Bob.

'Eh! Quelch?' Smithy seemed to have forgotten that such a person existed. 'Oh! Yes!'

'Glad you played after all, old man?' asked Harry Wharton, with a smile.

'What-ho!' said Smithy.

Tom Redwing joined him, as the footballers went to the changing-room. He pressed Smithy's arm.

'That was topping, Smithy,' he said. 'You were the best man on the field, old chap.'

'Rot!' said Smithy: though, as a matter of fact, he shared that opinion. 'Just luck, Reddy.'

'Luck, and good Soccer,' said Tom, smiling. Then his face became grave. 'Thank goodness you decided to play, Smithy, and chucked up that mad idea of yours.

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