“He’s been sewing together the pillow-cases to make his trousers,” said some one.
“Think of a chap putting on his dress shirt to play football in,” cried another.
“Frampton said we were to wear the oldest togs we’d got,” said a third, “not our Sunday best.”
Jeffreys, as indeed it was intended, heard these facetious remarks on his strange toilet, and his brow grew heavy.
“Come on,” said Scarfe, as he drew near, “it wasn’t fair to the other side for you not to play.”
“I couldn’t find my boots,” replied the Cad shortly, scowling round him.
“Perhaps you’ll play forward,” said Farfield, “and if ever you don’t know what to do, go and stand outside those flag posts, and for mercy’s sake let the ball alone.”
“Boo-hoo! I am in such a funk,” cried Forrester with his mocking laugh. “Thank goodness I’m playing back.”
“Come now,” called Mr Freshfield impatiently, “are you ready? Kick off, Farfield. Look out, School.”
Next moment the match had begun.