Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Transcriber's note: the Frontispiece was missing from the source book]
FORGE OF FOXENBY
BY
R. A. H. GOODYEAR
_Illustrated by T. M. R. Whitwell_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
Contents
CHAP.
I. The County Schools' Final
II. The Captain and "The Octopus"
III. A Rival to "The Foxonian"
IV. What followed the First Number
V. Rhymes and Riddles
VI. The Plea of Peter Mawdster
VII. The Squirms in the Forest
VIII. The Burglary
IX. Luke Harwood in the Picture
X. The Merry Men give an Entertainment
XI. Settling the Score
XII. Dick has Friendship thrust upon him
XIII. The Printer is Polite no Longer
XIV. The Fight on the Bowling-green
XV. The Cloud with the Silver Lining
XVI. In which Peter has an Unhappy Day
XVII. The Friend in Need
XVIII. Fluffy Jim provides a Sensation
XIX. Roger returns to Brighter Skies
XX. The Tourist who talked Poetry
XXI. The Merry Men win Glory
XXII. Home Truths for Luke Harwood
XXIII. A Merry Man's Magazine
XXVI. The Three-cornered Tournament
XXV. The Merry Men score Goals
XXVI. Two from Eleven leaves Nine
XXVII. A Gift-goal for St. Cuthbert's
XXVIII. The Winning of the Cup
Illustrations
Forge's Triumph . . . . _Frontispiece_
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Forge"
"You filthy brutes, you shall suffer for this"
"See that?" he said
"Jim, don't stand there grinning like an ape"
He next felt himself lifted over the ropes
FORGE OF FOXENBY
CHAPTER I
The County Schools' Final
"A goal!"
"Straight from the kick-off--a goal!"
"Oh, played, St. Cuthbert's! One up! Hurrah!"
"Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" came the delighted chorus of congratulations
from Cuthbertians in all parts of the field.
But, until the ball is seen resting in the back of the net, it is as
unwise to count a goal as it is to reckon chickens still in the shell.
There was a youth behind the Foxenby posts with a muddy mark on the
side of his face, and he at least knew no goal had been scored.
The first shot of the match had flashed by the upright--on the wrong
side of it for St. Cuthbert's, on the right side of it for Foxenby,
whose sigh of heart-felt relief was audible when their rivals' untimely
cheers had died down.
"A narrow squeak, old man!" said Dick Forge, the captain of the Foxenby
team, to Broome, the inside-left, selected from Holbeck's House.
"Rather!" answered Broome. "It quite turned my heart over. Their
centre's got his shooting-boots on this afternoon."
"Helped by the wind, of course. It's buzzing across from goal to goal.
Feel the pressure of it! Like running up against a house-side."
"We'll never get going against it, Captain. They'll be a dozen goals
up at half-time."
"Fudge!" cried the captain. "They've got Lebberston and Lyon--grand
old Lyon--to beat first, and Ennis after that. Throw your chest out,
Broome, old man, and smile!"
Dick's laughing face was a tonic to the faint-hearted ones always.
However dark the picture seemed to be, he had the happy knack of
turning it to the light so that his chums could see something cheery in
it.
To-day they had much need of his enthusiasm, too. By calling "heads"
as the referee span a coin in the air, when it would have been much
nicer had he said "tails ", he had passed the luck of the toss to the
rival captain, who thankfully grabbed the chance of placing a spanking
sea-breeze at the back of his team.
Hard lines indeed, you Foxenby fellows, to lose the toss in a wind like
this, and on such a very important day. For you have worked your way
through to the final tie of the County Schools' Cup against teams of
stronger build, only to meet, in the last match, eleven sturdy youths
who outweigh you almost man for man.
Forge and Lyon alone can be said to be up to the average bulk of your
opponents. Ennis, your trusty goalkeeper, is certainly tall, but see
how thin he looks! Almost like a third goalpost, you might say. Your
forwards are fleet-footed to a man, and your halves are like terriers,
ever worrying the foe.
But you can't get away from the fact that weight plays a big part in
footer, and when a mass of bone and brawn has half a gale behind it to
help it whenever it charges you, why, phew! you need all the pluck you
can muster to pick yourselves up and start in afresh!
"St. Cuthbert's are a dandy side this season," remarked a young
Cuthbertian behind the Foxenby goal. "Scored twenty-three times in the
Cup-ties up to date, and never once had a goal notched against them."
"Ah, well, they'll blot their copy-books this afternoon, if never
before," retorted Robin Arkness, a Foxenby Junior, who had gathered
round him a little cluster of select pals, and was in a mood to blow
his own side's trumpet.
"Who's going to score against them, anyhow?" asked the perky
Cuthbertian youngster.
"Forge will, Broome will, perhaps even old Lyon will, from full-back,
given half a chance," declared the optimistic Robin.
"Pooh! They can't even cross the half-way line," snorted the champion
of St. Cuthbert's, contemptuously. "See how we're peppering your
goalie all the time. Play up, Saints! Bang 'em in, boys! Oo--ooo, a
goal--no, hang it, only a corner! Allow for the wind, Monty--allow for
the wind!"
"You mean 'allow for the gas', don't you, kid?" asked Robin. "You're a
tip-topper at scoring goals with your tongue."
Nevertheless the cocksure young Cuthbertian had every reason for his
confidence. Already there were many ominous smudges of mud on the
newly-whitewashed goalposts and crossbar, and a series of finely-placed
corner-kicks had only been hustled away by what seemed to be desperate
scrimmages of the Rugby order, with the luck on Foxenby's side.
The impartial crowd of Walsbridge townspeople, on whose ground the
final tie was being played, had read wonderful accounts of the
Cuthbertians' rock-like defence--it delighted them to see that these
hefty youths knew also the straight route to an opponent's goal.
Therefore, they began by wishing Ennis, the goalkeeper of the "Foxes",
good luck, and plenty of hard work!
They flocked behind his goal, cheering him again and again as he flung
himself backwards and forwards to fist away corking shots, some of
which he probably knew very little about, though it just happened that
his long body was always in the way. The better the goal-keeper, the
more good fortune he enjoys as a rule. Forwards seem somehow
magnetized into shooting where he is.
"How about that hatful of goals your team were going to score?" Robin
Arkness wanted to know, after twenty minutes of this sort of thing.
"Rather overlooked the fact that our side had a goalkeeper, didn't you,
Cuthbert kid?"
"He kept that last one out by a sheer fluke," grumbled the young
Cuthbertian. "See, there he goes again, bobbing the ball away with his
eyes shut."
"How unkind of him!" said Robin, in mock indignation. "Ennis, you're a
cad, you know, not letting the nice little Saints add to their
twenty-three goals. Stand aside, you naughty man, while they drive
holes through the net!"
But older heads than Robin's were being shaken over the sore straits in
which Foxenby found themselves so early in the game. Luke Harwood, the
prefect of Holbeck's House, and editor of the school magazine, seemed
so concerned about it that he voiced his fears to Roger Cayton, prefect
of Rooke's House, whose close personal friendship with the captain of
the team made him doubly anxious about the way things were going.
"Ennis is marvellous," said Luke, "but one-man shows don't win football
matches. Our halves and forwards can't even raise a gallop."
"That's no surprise, seeing that you and I have to hold our caps on in
the breeze."
"Granted, Cayton. Still, I wouldn't leave all the donkey-work to Ennis
and Lyon if I were captain. I'd fall back and help."
"If you were captain, yes. But Forge has different ideas. Let's give
him credit for knowing more about football than a spectator can."
There was a sting in this comment, which Luke Harwood did not fail to
observe. As editor of the Foxonian he was unapproachably the school's
best pupil, and so obviously the Head's favourite boy that he was known
throughout both houses as "Old Wykeham's Pet Fox". But as a footballer
he was "only middling", and to-day the selection committee had quietly
passed him over. The pill was a bitter one, and Roger's comment made
it still harder to swallow, but all he did was to whistle softly and
smile.
"I'd like to know the name of the artist who decked Fluffy Jim, the
village idiot, in those stripes of coloured paper," continued Roger
Cayton. "Club colours, of course, blue and white stripes. Still,
football enthusiasm may be carried too far, and such tomfoolery makes
me sick. What goats the St. Cuthbert's fellows will think us!"
"Pray don't take our little joke too seriously, Cayton," said Luke,
with a pleasant laugh. "Where's the big league club that doesn't cart
its mascot around with it on cup days? Fluffy Jim may bring us luck
and some second-half goals."
"Oh, yes, to be sure," snapped Roger. "Particularly as St. Cuthbert's
have come through to the final with a clean goal-sheet. They're the
sort of chaps who would be scared out of their form by a guy in
coloured paper, no doubt."
Harwood gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders.
"Funny, isn't it, how the best-laid schemes 'gang aft agley'?" he
commented. "Some of us thought that the sight of a mascot in gala garb
would serve to keep the footballing Foxes in good-humour throughout the
game."
"It's cheap and nasty," said Roger Cayton, not without pluck,
considering that Luke Harwood could have made a broken reed of him in
physical combat. "Weakness of intellect is a sorry enough thing in
itself. A coloured advertisement of it is worse."
Composed in manner always, seldom without an engaging smile, Harwood
did not let this half-challenge pass unnoticed. There was a gleam in
his eyes which even short-sighted Roger saw.
Between these two quick-witted boys existed an unspoken feud, founded
on Harwood's refusal to print in the Foxonian the contributions which
Roger persisted in sending. Doubtless Harwood felt that there was
scarcely room in the school magazine for two such literary stars as he
and Roger to shine at the same time.
"Well," said Harwood, calmly, "sorry if my cronies and I have given
offence. Our consolation must be that Fluffy Jim is having the
happiest day of his life. And you fellows may yet come to hail him as
a luck-bringer."
"Superstitious piffle, Harwood," Roger grunted, He and Luke then
drifted casually, apart. Neither desired to spoil a good football
match by bearing each other company any longer. Oil and vinegar, these
two!
"I have a rotten grain of suspicion in my nature, doubtless," thought
Roger. "Still, Forge is captain of the football team and captain of
the school--Luke Harwood would like to be both, and is neither. He
knows Dick is strung on wires, and how small a thing upsets him on big
occasions. This fool idea, then, of dressing the village idiot like a
circus clown--is there method in his madness? Is there a secret hope
that it will put Dick off his game?"
Left to himself, the half-witted youth known as "Fluffy Jim" was as
quiet as an old sheep. Now, inspired by someone behind the goal, he
used his booming voice to shout out repeatedly, in the dialect of the
district:
"Coom back an' keep 'em oot--coom back, coom back, afoör they scoöar!"
Others--and some who should have known better--took up the cry; but
Fluffy Jim's voice rose above the rest, just as his paper costume was
the most conspicuous thing on the field.
"Mascot, indeed!" thought Dick Forge bitterly. "His ridiculous rig-out
gets on my nerves, and now his voice is doing ditto. Some kind friend
in Holbeck's House is pulling the strings, I suspect. Bother it, how
cold and irritable this standing about makes me feel!"
As if to rub it in, his colleagues in the forward line began imploring
him to strengthen the defence. In imagination they saw Ennis beaten by
every fresh shot which the determined St. Cuthbert's team fired at the
goal, and it certainly seemed impossible that the tall, thin youth, who
had already done wonders, could hold the fort much longer. But Dick
Forge refused to be "rattled".
"Don't get the wind up, chaps," he urged. "If I'm injured and carried
off the field, you can pack the goal then. While I'm captain, you
won't."
"But they've worn our backs to fiddle-strings--it's inhuman not to help
the poor beggars out," protested Broome.
A grunt was the captain's only reply.
"Do you want Cuthbert's to score, Forge?" continued Broome.
It was an ungenerous speech, of which he was heartily ashamed a moment
later. The captain winced as he replied:
"You're as bad as the rest, Broome. This is football--a game--a
match--British sport. Backs defend goals--forwards shoot them. Yes, I
want St. Cuthbert's to score--if they can!"
His sympathy for the defence in their gruelling was acute, but he
shammed indifference to it. Let the Cup be lost or won, none should
say afterwards that the Foxes saved their goal by playing one
goalkeeper and ten backs. Finer to be a dozen goals behind at
half-time than that!
"Good old Dick!" shouted Roger from the touch-line. "Stick to your
game, old man!"
Dick turned a grateful face in the direction from which the voice came,
and then ran back anxiously as a great yell of "Penalty, penalty!" came
from the St. Cuthbert's players and spectators alike.
"What's happened, Clowes?" he said to the centre-half.
"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.
"It's positively sickening," said the young Cuthbertian, working his
shoulders about in sheer agony of suspense. "Your chaps have had
chunks of luck thrown at 'em. We ought to have been sixteen goals up
by now."
"And still stick at the old twenty-three," was Robin's gibe. "Poor old
Saints, such sinners at shooting! Hey, hooray! Forge is on the
ball--Forge is tivying off to the other end! Oh, bother! The wind's
beaten him--the ball's in touch. Never mind--we're across the half-way
line. All together, you Foxes--only a minute more!"
"Fibber!" shouted the Junior Cuthbertian. "It's two minutes off
half-time!"
"Blow the dust out of your half-crown watch and open your ears for the
referee's whistle, Cuthy. He's got it to his lips now. He's going to
blow. He has blown. Half-time! Bravo, you jolly Foxes!"
"Good old Lyon; played, old Ennis!" shouted the Foxenby section of the
crowd.
The wild and whirling first-half was indeed over. "Six--one" might
easily have been the score; _"nil--nil_" it actually was, with the
breeze still going strong. Small wonder that the Foxenby team left the
playing pitch with easier minds, and that the Junior Foxes grabbed one
another frantically and waltzed and pirouetted round and round the
ropes.