"They say that Lyon handled in the penalty-area," answered Clowes. "Hear them bawling at the referee! Hope to goodness he turns them down."
Pushing his way through the crowd of excited players, the flushed referee ran to consult one of his linesmen, who shook his head at once.
"A pure accident, 'ref.'," he declared.
"Exactly what I thought myself, but St. Cuthbert's were positive that he handled purposely."
St. Cuthbert's were very sore about it, too, when the referee bounced the ball, instead of awarding the penalty-kick they wanted so. How very much easier it would have been to beat the lanky Ennis with an uninterrupted shot, than when Lyon was circling round him like an eagle defending its nest!
Lyon was too bad—Lyon had handled purposely, and he ought to have owned up to it, said the mortified Cuthbertians.
But Lyon the Silent set his teeth and said nothing. It still wanted ten minutes of half-time, and for that trying period he meant to save his breath.
The crowd swayed backwards and forwards behind Ennis's goal. They couldn't keep still, and in their excitement kicked one another without noticing it.
Every player on the St. Cuthbert's side, save only the goalkeeper, became a sharpshooter. Each "potted" Ennis from every angle, allowing him no rest. The cross-bar rattled and creaked like the swinging sign-board of a tavern, and corner-kicks seemed almost as plentiful as roadside blackberries. But between the posts that aggravating ball simply would not go.
"Three more minutes, Foxenby—kick away, kick away!" yelled Robin Arkness and his frenzied chums.