"Yes," agreed another expert. "If they'd crowded on all sail like that earlier on, they could have walked the ball through."
"Rather—by sheer force of numbers," chimed in a third.
"We shan't make that mistake," quoth yet another oracle. "Why, even old Ennis will come out of his hutch and have a pot-shot now and again, won't you, Ennis?"
Ennis might have been part of the furniture for all the notice he took of this remark. He just sat back in the corner, sprawling out his long legs, and breathing hard.
Some of his finger-nails were torn, the backs of his hands wore long scratches, and his knuckles were bruised and bleeding. Smears of mud blackened his face, which he had not yet found energy to sponge. Battered knees and swollen shins, too, were part of the price he had paid for keeping his goal unpierced. None but he knew the aches and pains he had endured to hold the fort for Foxenby. It would be many a long day before his skin was free of scars.
"Here, old man, have a drink of this," said Forge, holding to the goalie's lips a cup of coffee. "Good stuff, eh? Buck you up no end. Alstone, hurry up with that bowl of warm water. All St. Cuthbert's have printed their autographs on Ennis's face."
The water was hurriedly brought, and Dick sponged the goalie's features with it as well as he could, what time the babel of voices went on uninterruptedly about them.
"What a narrow squeak when Lyon handled! Looked all over like a penalty to me. Had they got it their 'cap.' would have converted—he never misses a spot-kick."
"If we have a penalty Broome must take it. He put three through for Holbeck's in the practice match last Saturday—didn't you, Broome?"
"Shut up!" snapped Broome, colouring a little. He was still kicking himself for what he had said to Forge before, and was determined in future to leave captaincy to the captain.