With Niblo in goal, and himself at left full-back, the captain of the Squirms really made a gallant attempt to save his side from immediate humiliation. Doing the work of three players, he nipped in time after time to throw the Merry Men's scoring schemes awry. His only mistake in the first fifteen minutes was to bring Robin down somewhat roughly when a goal seemed certain. Forge took a charitable view of the foul and merely awarded an ordinary free kick. This Niblo, who was playing a surprisingly good game, fisted away with convincing force.
"We're doing top-hole, chaps," Osbody told the Squirms. "Get farther down the field, you forwards, and chance your luck more."
Grain could play decently enough at centre-forward when he liked, but was lazy by nature and a confirmed grumbler.
"Talking's easy," he sneered. "Fat lot of attacking you'd do yourself if you'd two sugar babies instead of players at each side of you."
"Try a gallop on your own anyhow, Grain. You're big enough."
"I see. Plenty for them to kick at, you mean. Hadn't you better get back towards goal, 'Body, before the squibs go off?"
Truly, Osbody had been caught napping. The ball had been restarted while he was talking, and Dave and Robin had lured the other full-back into a booby-trap. He zigzagged in bewilderment towards Niblo, whose toes he trod on, with the result that the hampered goalkeeper had the mortification of seeing the ball lobbed past him for the first goal of the match.
"You clumsy clown!" he cried to the faulty fullback. "Either keep off my toes or get off the field. You gave them that goal!"
Bad temper is the worst opponent a goalkeeper can have. While he remained cool Niblo had kept goal excellently well; now that he was hot and cross he could do nothing right. Robin beat him again with quite a simple shot; Dave bagged a couple more in as many minutes, and the thrashing which the Squirms themselves had expected began in real earnest. Niblo's sole occupation seemed to be that of picking the ball from the back of the net and booting it savagely back to the centre of the field.
Osbody wiped his forehead in miserable perplexity. "Nine goals to nil," he said. "This is sheer slaughter, Niblo. Steady, old man, steady!"