in football garb the squirms, on the whole, looked unimpressive. they had bulk, but it was beef without brawn. some of them had so outgrown their togs that their arms stuck out sideways, in a grotesque semi-circular fashion. others had fat faces, too, which turned unhealthily blue in the wind.

"what a mug's game it is," grumbled grain. "we're prize idiots to appear at all."

"couldn't honourably do otherwise," retorted osbody.

"honour be hanged! we're not heroes of a sporting novel. look at the crowd of foxes round the ropes. they've come to laugh at us!"

"perhaps they'll cheer us before we've finished."

"rubbish! we're all as soft as putty. given football a miss whenever possible. hated the muddy misery of it. the merry men will tie us into every kind of knot."

"shut up, fusspot!" said osbody, with spirit. "it's rotten bad form to cry 'stinking fish'."

"rather!" agreed niblo. "where's the sense of piling up imaginary goals against your own side, grain? grouse when they're actually scored, not before."

"you're living in a fool's paradise," retorted grain. "go on kidding yourselves that you're an international side. all i can say is, that you don't jolly well look it. more like a row of plucked turkeys outside a poulterer's shop."

his bitter comments were interrupted by the arrival of the merry men, looking fit as fiddles in their white shirts and blue knickers. rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, full of vim and confidence, they formed a striking contrast to their shivering opponents. judging by appearances, there would only be one team in the picture that afternoon.

osbody, as captain, met arkness in the centre of the field. "who's to referee?" he inquired. "i forgot to ask about that."

"that's all right," robin answered cheerily. "thought we'd have a good 'un while we were about it. i've asked forge to take the whistle."

"you never dared!" cried osbody, evidently taken aback.

"why not? forge doesn't bite. what better 'ref.' could we have? he'll see fair play to the last kick."

"who said there was going to be any play that wasn't fair?" asked osbody, ungraciously.

"not i, you thin-skinned beggar. all i meant was that forge knows the rules backwards way. he'll hold the scales even and favour neither side."

"that's as may be," remarked grain. he had come up behind them with his customary cheek to butt into the conversation. "some people know how to wangle things. even school-captains swallow butter occasionally."

robin looked at grain with cold contempt. "here comes forge," he said. "time to start. if you'll ask your men to stand back, osbody, we'll toss for ends."

a cordial cheer greeted forge, who concealed an amused smile with difficulty as he saw, through the corner of his eye, the long faces the squirms were pulling at his appearance. doubtless they would have preferred a milder and shorter-sighted referee.

dick shook hands with both captains in a manner of becoming gravity. it might have been a first league match, so seriously did he take it.

"good afternoon, chaps," he said. "ideal afternoon for footer. winning the toss won't help either of you much. hope we'll have a pleasant game."

the news that dick was refereeing quickly spread. it was a totally unexpected honour for a junior match. usually the captain was too busy leather-hunting himself to take any notice of scratch games. that he had decided to referee this contest between the merry men and the squirms excited curiosity, resulting in a rapid thickening of the ring of spectators round the ropes.

it was all very depressing to the squirms. they had hoped against hope that the crowd of onlookers would be small, having a lively fear that they were bound to make fools of themselves. the advent of the captain as referee had turned the limelight full on them, and more than half foxenby would now be present to deride their floundering efforts at football.

"arkness did it on purpose, the crafty bounder," they told one another. "this is his revenge for the tournament licking. nice figures of fun we'll look after a bit."

"buck up, chaps, and put all in," osbody counselled them. "we're eleven against eleven, after all. use your weight and knock some of the steam out of them at the start."

with niblo in goal, and himself at left full-back, the captain of the squirms really made a gallant attempt to save his side from immediate humiliation. doing the work of three players, he nipped in time after time to throw the merry men's scoring schemes awry. his only mistake in the first fifteen minutes was to bring robin down somewhat roughly when a goal seemed certain. forge took a charitable view of the foul and merely awarded an ordinary free kick. this niblo, who was playing a surprisingly good game, fisted away with convincing force.

"we're doing top-hole, chaps," osbody told the squirms. "get farther down the field, you forwards, and chance your luck more."

grain could play decently enough at centre-forward when he liked, but was lazy by nature and a confirmed grumbler.

"talking's easy," he sneered. "fat lot of attacking you'd do yourself if you'd two sugar babies instead of players at each side of you."

"try a gallop on your own anyhow, grain. you're big enough."

"i see. plenty for them to kick at, you mean. hadn't you better get back towards goal, 'body, before the squibs go off?"

truly, osbody had been caught napping. the ball had been restarted while he was talking, and dave and robin had lured the other full-back into a booby-trap. he zigzagged in bewilderment towards niblo, whose toes he trod on, with the result that the hampered goalkeeper had the mortification of seeing the ball lobbed past him for the first goal of the match.

"you clumsy clown!" he cried to the faulty fullback. "either keep off my toes or get off the field. you gave them that goal!"

bad temper is the worst opponent a goalkeeper can have. while he remained cool niblo had kept goal excellently well; now that he was hot and cross he could do nothing right. robin beat him again with quite a simple shot; dave bagged a couple more in as many minutes, and the thrashing which the squirms themselves had expected began in real earnest. niblo's sole occupation seemed to be that of picking the ball from the back of the net and booting it savagely back to the centre of the field.

osbody wiped his forehead in miserable perplexity. "nine goals to nil," he said. "this is sheer slaughter, niblo. steady, old man, steady!"

"right, 'body, old son," answered niblo. "i lost my head, but they're all on top of me. can't you go to your old place and draw them off me a bit?"

"good idea, niblo. i'll feel more at home at centre-half, putting a spoke in arkness's wheel."

grain watched the change with cynical approval. "time you came to give me a hand," he said. "the professor's no more use behind me than a draughty keyhole."

"have a pot at goal whenever you can, grain. we must get a chalk or two, or it'll be 'thirty—nil' on the hall notice-board."

between them they managed to get a move on, juggling the ball into the merry men's penalty-area by deft touches which won applause. osbody was then in a splendid scoring position, and ought to have shot without hesitation. probably wishing, however, to put grain in a better temper, he unselfishly gave his grumbling colleague the ball, saying to him: "let fly first time, grain."

it was what is known as a gift-goal. the merry men's custodian had slipped and fallen, and grain had only to lift the ball gently into the net. but the excitement of the moment must have unnerved him, for instead of shooting he trod on the ball, which flew up and hit him in the face.

the next moment, to the accompaniment of a loud roar of laughter, he had sprawled full length in the mud.

there was mud on this particular patch of the field, too. it was facetiously called the "nigger pond", because on most days a pool of black water was present there.

if grain had been in the habit of practising more he would have remembered this patch and kept clear of it. but now he was wholly in it from head to foot, sending a fountain of black drops over osbody also, and (what was worse still from his captain's standpoint) spoiling all chance of a score by accidentally fisting the ball over the goal-line.

when, at last, he managed to raise himself dolefully to his feet, who was there on the field who could have refrained from grinning at him? black he was, but not in any way comely. his appearance was that of a golliwog too tightly stuffed with sawdust—an irresistibly comical sight.

the spectators exploded with mirth; the squirms laughed even louder than the merry men; forge himself could not keep a straight face, and laughed aloud with the rest. only grain failed to see the broad humour of the thing.

"keep it up, you blinking idiots!" he snorted, as he flung the mud from his blazing eyes. "pretty cads you all are to make game of a fellow's misery."

"cut off and change, grain," dick advised him.

"so i will, and i shan't come back," whined grain.

"nonsense," dick returned. "take it in good part, youngster. your side needs you. play the game."

grain ran off sulkily, and at half-time, when the merry men had a dozen goals to their credit, he had washed off the mud and made himself presentable in a clean costume from the emergency kit.

"that's right, kid," dick said to him. "you're going in again. better luck next time."

grain grunted something in an off-hand manner—a piece of surly cheek which dick tactfully ignored. but the captain of the school decided to keep a watchful eye on this unmannerly young squirm, whose ways were far from being ways of pleasantness.

the bulk of the crowd had melted away at half-time, the game being too one-sided to hold their attention. it was just target practice for the merry men's forwards and halves, and runaway victories quickly pall on unbiassed spectators.

but it gradually became evident that the play was becoming too warm for some of the combatants. cries of "stop that, you dirty cad!" were audible at intervals, and dick had at last to push himself unceremoniously between two sparring opponents, one of whom was painfully hopping up and down on a bruised leg.

"that'll do, storm—that's enough, grain," said dick. "this is a football-field, not a rat-pit."

"i was nowhere near the ball when he hacked me," pleaded dave.

"rot!" said grain. "you fell over my foot. i'm as much hurt as you."

"better temper, please," said dick, restarting the game. but this time he paid less heed to the play in general than to the movements of grain in particular. very soon he saw something which confirmed his suspicions. pretending to head a ball which was nowhere near him, grain scraped some skin off arkness's knees with his boot, while striking the back of his hand against tom jaye's nose, causing that organ to bleed a little.

dick promptly blew his whistle and ran to the scene. "free kick against you, grain," he announced. "don't be more like a windmill than you can help. it's dangerous!"

grain smiled in a supercilious sort of way, and, folding his arms like a gladiator, contemptuously watched dave take the free kick. to show how utterly a word in season was lost on him, the next minute he literally jumped, knees up, into allan a dale's back, sending that lightly-built and altogether harmless merry man somersaulting over the ropes.

"here, stop rotting, you lout!" cried robin, his blood boiling.

grain's immediate answer was an uplifted fist and a vicious blow at robin's face.

robin saved his beauty, not to mention a considerable amount of sticking-plaster, by ducking swiftly and taking the hard smack on his shoulder. there were cries of indignant disgust from players and spectators alike.

"how's that for dirty play, referee?" somebody shouted.

dick needed no such reminder of his duty. like an avenging force he fell upon grain and gripped the squirm's arm.

"clear off the field, grain!" he commanded. "out of it. march!"

"ridiculous," protested grain. "i only charged a man off the ball."

"you might have snapped his backbone like a carrot. make yourself scarce and don't argue."

but grain did argue. to the awed amazement of both squirms and merry men, he fired a lot of audacious back-talk at the grimly-silent captain.

"you can't send me off, forge," he declared. "haven't power to. this isn't a league match or a cup-tie. you weren't asked to referee—at least, not by our side. i've done no harm; why should i go?"

"never mind the why and the wherefore," snapped the captain. "take yourself off."

grain looked round at the frightened faces watching him, and had a mind to show them what a devil-may-care fellow he was.

"shan't!" he answered, with a stupidly defiant laugh.

he was asking for trouble there, and did not seek in vain. round the back of his neck forge's fingers fastened like a vice. he next felt himself lifted over the ropes as though he were no more than a bag of shavings, and at a furious and undignified speed he was hustled to the gate of the football-field and pitched into the lane.

he next felt himself lifted over the ropes

he next felt himself lifted over the ropes

"stay there till the dust-cart picks you up, you vermin," said dick, with withering scorn.

after that the game was better and brighter. nobody said anything, but everybody felt that a spirit of mischief had been erased from the match. osbody fell back to defend again, and he and niblo put up so stout a defence that the merry men could only score twice more before dick's whistle blew for time.

still, twenty-three goals to none represented a terrible drubbing for the squirms, and one that made their tournament victory seem a very feeble triumph indeed.

yet nobody seemed the least inclined to rub the licking in. the squirms, with one conspicuous exception, had played a clean game, and kept their tempers in humiliating circumstances. just, then, as they were trooping dejectedly from the field, they were electrified by hearing robin's familiar treble calling out:

"three cheers for osbody's team, you fellows—hip, hip, hooray!"

forge turned to listen in smiling approval as the merry men whole-heartedly gave three cheers. osbody blushed like a girl and gazed apprehensively round at the squirms, wondering how they would take this totally unexpected outburst. then, swinging his arm round his head, he cried to them:

"three cheers for the winners, you chaps."

what matter that the squirms' cheers were but throaty croaks compared with the full-voiced hurrahs of the merry men? they did their best in an unaccustomed part, plainly realizing that their honourable foes had treated them in a thoroughly sporting spirit. not to have responded in a similar vein would have disgraced them in foxenby's eyes.

glancing at one another sheepishly, they made haste to leave the field, but were overtaken by dick forge, who accommodated his pace to theirs.

"you chaps look down in the mouth," the captain said, briskly. "don't be. you've no need. there's quite decent footer in some of you. all you require is practice. you've played particularly well, osbody. ditto you, niblo."

the two leading squirms flushed with unconcealed delight at this compliment from foxenby's greatest footballer.

"but—but they made all sorts of rings round us, forge," osbody stammered.

"true. served you right. you loafed about indoors, getting flabbier than jellyfish, while arkness and co. hardened themselves outside. i am pretty keen on footer, as you know, boys. when a fox has legs to stand on i like to see him chasing a ball with them, even if he never catches up with it. now, tell me, are you chaps game to stick together and practise footer every week, for the honour of foxenby?"

a quick little catching of breath was audible here and there. what could the squirms do when the great captain of foxenby was pleading with them thus? his whole heart was in his voice—his deadly earnestness could not be mistaken. the meanest boy amongst them knew how passionately forge loved foxenby, and his pure devotion to its interests was infectious.

"why, of course, forge, we'll practise like the very dickens—won't we, you chaps?" said osbody, turning on them a pair of eyes that shone with new resolution.

"rather!" they answered, in somewhat tremulous chorus.

"good biz," commented forge, as he turned aside into rooke's house. "it bucks me up no end to hear you say so."