Just a few more minutes of sitting in this stiff chair, in these itchy corduroys, and Clover would be home free. It was Friday, so naturally, the whole class was yearning to go play in the sun of this strangely-warm afternoon. For January, especially on the seaside, the air felt mild, at a decent 50 degrees Fahrenheit (10 degrees Celsius), and Clover especially wanted to play in the field just past the school. Yesterday, it had rained, and although that meant he couldn't play outdoors for fear of catching a cold, the rain had turned most of the field into MUD! And wasn't that splendid!

The cuckoo clock chimed and immediately all the children started to get up. Clover ran out the door, his coat draped over his arm because it was warm enough to not wear it over his overalls and thick cotton shirt. He ran toward the field, plenty of his classmates following, and didn't worry over whether or not his father would be annoyed if he came home covered in mud.

Bram ran out of the school building, pushing some of the younger kids out of the way, just because they were smaller and he could. He wasn't in a rush to go home and do all his chores, but he was always in a rush to get out of school. He looked longingly at the field where some of his classmates were already playing. Screw his chores! He ran over. "Alright! Everybody listen to me! We'll play football!" He shouted. But most kids ignored him.

Clover looked over to see Bram Ward, who was usually in a hurry to get home after school, trying to start a game of football. He jumped up and down and waved for all the kids' attention, and when he got about ten other boys looking at him he pointed to Bram and exclaimed, "Football game! C'mon!" and the small group ran over, shouting and pushing each other over in good fun as they stumbled through the thick mud.

Some girls were skipping rope in the corner of the field. Others were clapping hands with rhymes. They looked at the boys rolling through the mud and pushing each other, and shook their heads.

One of the children brought a home made ball and soon they were teamed up and had devised goal posts with old bottles. Bram guarded one of the goals, and shouted a swear word at one of the boys when he scored.

Clover laughed with exhilaration as the boys played in the mud, kicking around the homemade ball until it would barely move, it was so covered in mud, and then one of them would take it to the water pump by the school door, wash it off, and return to keep playing. When Bram scored and shouted a curse at one of the boys to celebrate his victory, Clover gasped- his father had always taught him not to say words like that until he was a grown-up. Then again, Bram was two years older than him, so maybe he counted as a grown-up in that regard.

"Pass it here!" Within the hour, Clover's face and clothes were absolutely soaked through with mud and he was starting to feel a chill from the dampness, so he stepped back from the game for a few minutes to grab his coat- but it was gone! He looked around, feeling anxiety creep up his spine- that was his only coat, and he knew his Pa couldn't afford to buy him another one. Had someone taken it by mistake, or maybe on purpose? It was too heavy for the wind to carry away, so that was really the only thing he could think of, and he ran back to the game, shouting about his misfortune. Most of the boys were so enthused by the football game that they quickly transferred their excitement to helping Clover look for his coat. Where could it be?

Bram was sweating and covered in mud by the time the game stopped. He knew he really should go home and help his sister. But the game had been so exciting. And it wasn't that late yet, was it? Okay, the sun was rather low. But it wasn't that late, Bram told himself. "Where did you see it last?" Bram asked the younger boy.

Clover pointed to the post where all the boys had hung and draped their coats before running onto the field. "I looked all through them, but it's not there! And the wind wouldn't take it, would it?" Turning a statement into a question when directed at authority (for that's how Clover saw Bram, who seemed to be taking charge of the search) was something Clover had found to be highly effective when getting grown-ups to sympathize with his cause.

Being the youngest at home, nobody took Bram seriously there, and so he relished in the sense of authority this boy gave him. "Don't worry, we'll find your coat," he said in his most grown up voice. "Was there anything valuable in your pockets, or was your coat expensive?" Some boy might have stolen it. Bram would find him and beat him up.

"I had a toy in my pocket. My Pa made it for me." Clover fought away sudden tears. Even though he knew his father could make him another toy just like it, he still felt attached to the tinkered thing and hoped they would find his coat not just because he was damp and getting cold as the sun dropped further toward the horizon but so he could have his toy back. "I don't think I could get another coat if I can't find mine now," he said sadly and started ruffling through the other boys' coats again for a third time, juuust in case he'd missed his coat hiding under someone else's, but no cigar once more.