The spectators exploded with mirth; the Squirms laughed even louder than the Merry Men; Forge himself could not keep a straight face, and laughed aloud with the rest. Only Grain failed to see the broad humour of the thing.
"Keep it up, you blinking idiots!" he snorted, as he flung the mud from his blazing eyes. "Pretty cads you all are to make game of a fellow's misery."
"Cut off and change, Grain," Dick advised him.
"So I will, and I shan't come back," whined Grain.
"Nonsense," Dick returned. "Take it in good part, youngster. Your side needs you. Play the game."
Grain ran off sulkily, and at half-time, when the Merry Men had a dozen goals to their credit, he had washed off the mud and made himself presentable in a clean costume from the emergency kit.
"That's right, kid," Dick said to him. "You're going in again. Better luck next time."
Grain grunted something in an off-hand manner—a piece of surly cheek which Dick tactfully ignored. But the captain of the school decided to keep a watchful eye on this unmannerly young Squirm, whose ways were far from being ways of pleasantness.
The bulk of the crowd had melted away at half-time, the game being too one-sided to hold their attention. It was just target practice for the Merry Men's forwards and halves, and runaway victories quickly pall on unbiassed spectators.
But it gradually became evident that the play was becoming too warm for some of the combatants. Cries of "Stop that, you dirty cad!" were audible at intervals, and Dick had at last to push himself unceremoniously between two sparring opponents, one of whom was painfully hopping up and down on a bruised leg.