Dick needed no such reminder of his duty. Like an avenging force he fell upon Grain and gripped the Squirm's arm.
"Clear off the field, Grain!" he commanded. "Out of it. March!"
"Ridiculous," protested Grain. "I only charged a man off the ball."
"You might have snapped his backbone like a carrot. Make yourself scarce and don't argue."
But Grain did argue. To the awed amazement of both Squirms and Merry Men, he fired a lot of audacious back-talk at the grimly-silent captain.
"You can't send me off, Forge," he declared. "Haven't power to. This isn't a league match or a cup-tie. You weren't asked to referee—at least, not by our side. I've done no harm; why should I go?"
"Never mind the why and the wherefore," snapped the captain. "Take yourself off."
Grain looked round at the frightened faces watching him, and had a mind to show them what a devil-may-care fellow he was.
"Shan't!" he answered, with a stupidly defiant laugh.
He was asking for trouble there, and did not seek in vain. Round the back of his neck Forge's fingers fastened like a vice. He next felt himself lifted over the ropes as though he were no more than a bag of shavings, and at a furious and undignified speed he was hustled to the gate of the football-field and pitched into the lane.