"Keep your big toe out of the way of his seven-league boots, anyhow," was Roger's timely warning.
Reaching Walsbridge by rail from Moston was rather a depressing experience. It entailed a long wait at a draughty junction, where refreshment was difficult to obtain. Footballers who train at the seaside develop healthy appetites, and the grub provided on this occasion didn't satisfy some members of the team, who fared forth to forage for more.
"Don't dawdle, Clowes—come back quickly, Broome," Dick counselled them. "No rotting about to-day, remember!"
"We could eat the town up and then be back half-an-hour before this clockwork hearse of a train started," Broome said.
"Better be on the hungry side than gorge," said Dick, anxiously. "Stick to beef-sandwiches—no pickles or fried potatoes, mind!"
Not caring to seem fussy about diet, but fearing the effect of too much indifferent food, Dick watched the pair leave with some concern. Then he and Roger strolled about the platform, deriving amusement from the vocal rivalry of the Merry Men and the Squirms, who tried which could first shiver the glass roof of the junction with their shrill football slogans.
"We're handicapped by this changing business, Roger," Dick said. "St. Cuthbert's get a through train to Walsbridge, and can start after luncheon, warm and well-fed. It's quite on the cards that those ravenous beggars, Broome and Clowes, will come back bilious from greasy grub."
"If they come back at all," commented Roger, glancing grimly at the clock.
"My hat, it's five minutes off train-time!" Dick exclaimed. "Confound the slackers, they're cutting it fine. Here, Arkness, slip into the street and see if you can spot Broome and Clowes. Signal them up, smart!"
Such an errand could have been trusted to no one quicker than Robin. He vanished like a streak, only to return three minutes later with a furiously-shaking head.