CHAPTER XXVII
A Gift-goal for St. Cuthbert's
The directors of the Walsbridge Football Club had been badly "caught out". They ran hither and thither in perspiring helplessness, wondering vainly how to deal with the crowd, which swamped all their turnstiles, and leaned its weight in threatening bulk against the creaking wooden gates. Such a throng to see a schoolboys' match had never entered into their calculations. Their turnstile men couldn't take the money fast enough.
An urgent telephone message brought extra police, and the directors themselves took off their coats and took on the admission-money at the same time. Thus they packed the ground, with the result that every tree and house-roof in the neighbourhood was speedily black with the excluded spectators.
Such a multitude would have cheered the hearts of an adult club, but it was more than a little unnerving to some of the schoolboy players. Particularly awe-struck were Arkness and Osbody, who had brought spring-rattles and tin trumpets with them, intending to make a cheerful din under the blue sky of a spring day. Instead, they were bidden to the captain's presence, and coolly told to slip their quaking limbs into the shirts and knickers made ready for them.
"Oh, I say, it's not the first of April, Forge," Robin ventured to say, pathetically. "You—you're pulling our legs, aren't you?"
"I shall faint straight away," chattered Osbody, looking white enough to justify what he said.
"Buck up, youngsters," said Dick. "Don't get stage-fright. You'll fall into your stride after a bit."
"But—but it's so—so awfully unexpected," Robin stammered. "W-W-Why are we p-p-playing, Forge?"
"Because I wish you to, kid," answered Dick. "Isn't that enough?"