Both shots went where the keeper was not—each, an inch lower, would have made a goal. Such rough luck notwithstanding, "Owd can't scoöar, owd can't scoöar!" bawled Fluffy Jim, derisively waving his papered arms.
"Some sort of mascot, this," thought the bitterly-disappointed captain, "and to make sure I shan't miss seeing him, they flatten him against the ropes. Fun for them—rotten for me!"
Time travelled apace. The referee looked at his watch—a plain hint that the end was nigh. Nothing seemed likelier than the match fizzling out in a goalless draw—a depressing result, satisfactory to neither side.
Yet there was one among the spectators whose youthful heart declined to be downcast. One also whose lungs were sound as a bell, and whose throat was still capable of leading the way in a fresh chorus of rousing yells.
Robin Arkness was the undaunted enthusiast who started the swelling cheer which infected the neutral spectators and struck a warm, reviving glow to Dick Forge's heart.
"Well played, Forge—played the captain of the Foxes!" yelled the Juniors, in uplifting chorus. "Three cheers for the good old captain—hip, hip, hooray!"
Ah, what priceless encouragement was this, at a moment when all seemed lost! To Dick it seemed to bring new life, fresh strength. He could feel his pulses leaping again as the ball came his way once more. Broome, too, felt the spur of that timely cheer, shook off his ill-humour, and sprinted to the captain's side.
"Hang on, Forge!" he said. "Go ahead! Don't bother passing just yet."
Bessingham, cool and confident as ever, bore down upon the pair, feeling for the ball with feet that never erred. Clever, uncanny Bessingham! Just how he did it, you couldn't tell, but he nipped the leather right from Dick's toe, and down went the mercury behind the goal, changing the Cub-foxes' cheer to a groan.
"Oh, jumping crackers!" cried Robin. "Forge has lost it!"