"It's positively sickening," said the young Cuthbertian, working his shoulders about in sheer agony of suspense. "Your chaps have had chunks of luck thrown at 'em. We ought to have been sixteen goals up by now."
"And still stick at the old twenty-three," was Robin's gibe. "Poor old Saints, such sinners at shooting! Hey, hooray! Forge is on the ball—Forge is tivying off to the other end! Oh, bother! The wind's beaten him—the ball's in touch. Never mind—we're across the half-way line. All together, you Foxes—only a minute more!"
"Fibber!" shouted the Junior Cuthbertian. "It's two minutes off half-time!"
"Blow the dust out of your half-crown watch and open your ears for the referee's whistle, Cuthy. He's got it to his lips now. He's going to blow. He has blown. Half-time! Bravo, you jolly Foxes!"
"Good old Lyon; played, old Ennis!" shouted the Foxenby section of the crowd.
The wild and whirling first-half was indeed over. "Six—one" might easily have been the score; "nil—nil" it actually was, with the breeze still going strong. Small wonder that the Foxenby team left the playing pitch with easier minds, and that the Junior Foxes grabbed one another frantically and waltzed and pirouetted round and round the ropes.
CHAPTER II
The Captain and "The Octopus"
There was more talk than Forge liked in the cramped little dressing-room during the interval. Nevertheless, he grimly held his tongue while those candid advisers, whose speciality is winning football matches with their mouths, put in their interfering oars.
"What killed St. Cuthbert's pig was the way their backs held aloof till the last few minutes," said one.