Luke Harwood, too, thought the time ripe for an exhibition of the good-sportsmanship which he liked to think was a feature of Holbeck's House.
"Outside, you wiseacres," he commanded. "This is a dressing-room, not a monkey-house. Don't burn up the team's oxygen. Don't speak to the man at the wheel. Other 'don'ts' to follow if you don't clear quickly."
He bundled out a few Juniors, and, as if by accident, bustled Roger Cayton too. Roger flushed and side-stepped, but said nothing. He was a slimly-built, spectacled youth, healthy enough, but physically no match for boys of his own age. By pretending to mistake him for one of the batch of Juniors Luke Harwood was, Roger believed, deliberately putting a slight on him. Still, he pursed his lips and swallowed his resentment, and the bit of by-play passed unnoticed by the others.
"All ready again, chaps?" asked Forge. "Come on, then. The referee's piping up."
Not a word, you will notice, did Forge speak of encouragement or advice. They knew better than to expect "jaw" from him, he being one of those wise captains who shout instructions only when the necessity is strong. He expected them all to do their best without any nagging, and to use their own wits in an emergency.
"Now we'll put it across you, Cuthy," said Robin Arkness, as the teams lined up. "We're after goals, not 'hard lines' and 'try again, boys!' You'll be wanting to creep into a rabbit-hole, Cuthy, before we've done with you."
"Swank!" retorted Cuthy. "You can't get goals against St. Cuthbert's; nobody ever does."
All the same, the youthful Cuthbertian's voice had an anxious tremor in it. He had a lively idea where all the play was likely to be, for he had never budged from his excellent standpoint behind the goal. Nor had Robin and his chums. Even the chance of a warming cup of coffee had failed to lure them away. The Foxenby "mascot" stuck there, too, grinning amiably at those who chaffed him about his make-up. The bulk of the spectators, neutral or otherwise, had not moved either. They pulled their overcoats closely about them, and stamped their feet to nullify the effect of the cold wind, which still blew straight towards that particular goal with unabated fury.
"Unless they've gotten a goalkeeper as 'wick' as Foxenby—which ain't to be expected—it's all ower but shoutin'," remarked a Walsbridge rustic. "Wi' a wind like this behind me, Ah could scoöar mesen."
"Leave that to us, old boy," Robin answered him complacently. "You won't have long to wait. See that? Oh, what a top-hole shot, Forge! An inch lower, and he'd have been beaten to the 'wide'!"