"In for a lamb, in for a sheep, chaps," he said. "Come along! We'll fire the matting."
Without giving his conscience any further time to prick, he darted across to the huge sheets of fibre-matting, clutched one, and dragged it towards him.
Then up before his astonished sight there sprang suddenly a bunch of sturdy young figures in football costumes, while from under other similar coverlets emerged the remainder of Robin Hood's Merry Men, with challenging cries that struck terror to the hearts of the dumbfounded Squirms.
"Caught!" cried Robin, leaping straight at Osbody. "Have at them, my Merry Men."
"You rotten sneaks, skulking about in there after pretending to start for footer," cried Osbody, in mortified fury. "Stand your ground, chaps, and slug 'em!"
He certainly set them a gallant example. Whatever his failings, funk was not one of them, and he gave Robin measure for measure in a rough-and-tumble encounter, more like a wrestling-match than a bout of fisticuffs.
Old enemies amongst the rest picked each other out and came to grips, but not more than half of the Squirms faced the music. The remainder ran from the sudden appearance of the Merry Men as they would have galloped from ghosts, and their judgment was good, for those of their gang whom they left behind were in for a sorry time indeed.
A dozen of them were collared and held captive almost at the first attempt. "I yield, I yield!" they cried, in craven chorus.
Not that they lacked reason for giving in so soon on this occasion, because the flight of the majority left them hopelessly outnumbered.
Their arms were pinned behind them, and they were unceremoniously bustled out of the way of the very much severer bouts which were taking place between Robin and Osbody, and between Grain and Little John. Osbody and Grain had far more "ginger" in their natures than any of the other Squirms, and the Merry Men gave them every chance to fight it out, confident that Robin and Little John would sooner or later prove themselves the victors.