What matter that the Squirms' cheers were but throaty croaks compared with the full-voiced hurrahs of the Merry Men? They did their best in an unaccustomed part, plainly realizing that their honourable foes had treated them in a thoroughly sporting spirit. Not to have responded in a similar vein would have disgraced them in Foxenby's eyes.
Glancing at one another sheepishly, they made haste to leave the field, but were overtaken by Dick Forge, who accommodated his pace to theirs.
"You chaps look down in the mouth," the captain said, briskly. "Don't be. You've no need. There's quite decent footer in some of you. All you require is practice. You've played particularly well, Osbody. Ditto you, Niblo."
The two leading Squirms flushed with unconcealed delight at this compliment from Foxenby's greatest footballer.
"But—but they made all sorts of rings round us, Forge," Osbody stammered.
"True. Served you right. You loafed about indoors, getting flabbier than jellyfish, while Arkness and Co. hardened themselves outside. I am pretty keen on footer, as you know, boys. When a Fox has legs to stand on I like to see him chasing a ball with them, even if he never catches up with it. Now, tell me, are you chaps game to stick together and practise footer every week, for the honour of Foxenby?"
A quick little catching of breath was audible here and there. What could the Squirms do when the great captain of Foxenby was pleading with them thus? His whole heart was in his voice—his deadly earnestness could not be mistaken. The meanest boy amongst them knew how passionately Forge loved Foxenby, and his pure devotion to its interests was infectious.
"Why, of course, Forge, we'll practise like the very dickens—won't we, you chaps?" said Osbody, turning on them a pair of eyes that shone with new resolution.
"Rather!" they answered, in somewhat tremulous chorus.
"Good biz," commented Forge, as he turned aside into Rooke's House. "It bucks me up no end to hear you say so."