The Captain and "The Octopus"
There was more talk than Forge liked in the cramped little
dressing-room during the interval. Nevertheless, he grimly held his
tongue while those candid advisers, whose speciality is winning
football matches with their mouths, put in their interfering oars.
"What killed St. Cuthbert's pig was the way their backs held aloof till
the last few minutes," said one.
"Yes," agreed another expert. "If they'd crowded on all sail like that
earlier on, they could have walked the ball through."
"Rather--by sheer force of numbers," chimed in a third.
"We shan't make that mistake," quoth yet another oracle. "Why, even
old Ennis will come out of his hutch and have a pot-shot now and again,
won't you, Ennis?"
Ennis might have been part of the furniture for all the notice he took
of this remark. He just sat back in the corner, sprawling out his long
legs, and breathing hard.
Some of his finger-nails were torn, the backs of his hands wore long
scratches, and his knuckles were bruised and bleeding. Smears of mud
blackened his face, which he had not yet found energy to sponge.
Battered knees and swollen shins, too, were part of the price he had
paid for keeping his goal unpierced. None but he knew the aches and
pains he had endured to hold the fort for Foxenby. It would be many a
long day before his skin was free of scars.
"Here, old man, have a drink of this," said Forge, holding to the
goalie's lips a cup of coffee. "Good stuff, eh? Buck you up no end.
Alstone, hurry up with that bowl of warm water. All St. Cuthbert's
have printed their autographs on Ennis's face."
The water was hurriedly brought, and Dick sponged the goalie's features
with it as well as he could, what time the babel of voices went on
uninterruptedly about them.
"What a narrow squeak when Lyon handled! Looked all over like a
penalty to me. Had they got it their 'cap.' would have converted--he
never misses a spot-kick."
"If we have a penalty Broome must take it. He put three through for
Holbeck's in the practice match last Saturday--didn't you, Broome?"
"Shut up!" snapped Broome, colouring a little. He was still kicking
himself for what he had said to Forge before, and was determined in
future to leave captaincy to the captain.
Luke Harwood, too, thought the time ripe for an exhibition of the
good-sportsmanship which he liked to think was a feature of Holbeck's
House.
"Outside, you wiseacres," he commanded. "This is a dressing-room, not
a monkey-house. Don't burn up the team's oxygen. Don't speak to the
man at the wheel. Other 'don'ts' to follow if you don't clear quickly."
He bundled out a few Juniors, and, as if by accident, bustled Roger
Cayton too. Roger flushed and side-stepped, but said nothing. He was
a slimly-built, spectacled youth, healthy enough, but physically no
match for boys of his own age. By pretending to mistake him for one of
the batch of Juniors Luke Harwood was, Roger believed, deliberately
putting a slight on him. Still, he pursed his lips and swallowed his
resentment, and the bit of by-play passed unnoticed by the others.
"All ready again, chaps?" asked Forge. "Come on, then. The referee's
piping up."
Not a word, you will notice, did Forge speak of encouragement or
advice. They knew better than to expect "jaw" from him, he being one
of those wise captains who shout instructions only when the necessity
is strong. He expected them all to do their best without any nagging,
and to use their own wits in an emergency.
"Now we'll put it across you, Cuthy," said Robin Arkness, as the teams
lined up. "We're after goals, not 'hard lines' and 'try again, boys!'
You'll be wanting to creep into a rabbit-hole, Cuthy, before we've done
with you."
"Swank!" retorted Cuthy. "You can't get goals against St. Cuthbert's;
nobody ever does."
All the same, the youthful Cuthbertian's voice had an anxious tremor in
it. He had a lively idea where all the play was likely to be, for he
had never budged from his excellent standpoint behind the goal. Nor
had Robin and his chums. Even the chance of a warming cup of coffee
had failed to lure them away. The Foxenby "mascot" stuck there, too,
grinning amiably at those who chaffed him about his make-up. The bulk
of the spectators, neutral or otherwise, had not moved either. They
pulled their overcoats closely about them, and stamped their feet to
nullify the effect of the cold wind, which still blew straight towards
that particular goal with unabated fury.
"Unless they've gotten a goalkeeper as 'wick' as Foxenby--which ain't
to be expected--it's all ower but shoutin'," remarked a Walsbridge
rustic. "Wi' a wind like this behind me, Ah could scoöar mesen."
"Leave that to us, old boy," Robin answered him complacently. "You
won't have long to wait. See that? Oh, what a top-hole shot, Forge!
An inch lower, and he'd have been beaten to the 'wide'!"
Indeed, for the past ten minutes one continuous roar of delighted
cheering had accompanied Foxenby's sparkling bombardment of the St.
Cuthbert's goal. Excellent shots went astray by fractions of inches
only. Broome twice nearly did damage to the cross-bar, and one crafty
"balloon" from Forge, over the heads of a bobbing mass of players, was
scooped out of the top angle of the goal by the keeper's finger-tips
only. Hundreds of hoarse throats yelled "Goal!" prematurely. It was
only a corner, which tall Bessingham, the six-foot captain of St.
Cuthbert's, leapt high to head away.
"Whose toes are you jumping on, clumsy?" grumbled the Junior
Cuthbertian, sourly.
"Sorry, Cuthy--I couldn't help it," Robin confessed. "Simply can't
keep still. It's our turn for a song and dance this half, you know."
"Laugh when you've beaten old 'Bess', not before," Cuthy cautioned him.
There was something in the warning, too. A wonderful boy this
reed-like, overgrown Bessingham, with arms always straight to his
sides, and legs that seemed everywhere. He could use either foot with
equal power, and when his boot caught the ball he made kicking against
the wind seem as simple as kicking with it.
St. Cuthbert's called him "The Octopus", and by that nickname he was
known also to certain Football League Clubs, who wanted him to play for
them when he left school.
A weird, silent player, ever where the ball was, never seeming to take
a useless stride. Those who saw him to-day ceased to marvel at St.
Cuthbert's feat in reaching the final tie without yielding a goal. The
seventeen-year-old footballer was a man in all but age, with the cool
judgment of a veteran to guide his restless legs.
"Botheration, I can't dodge him!" panted Broome to Dick. "Did you see
us mixed together just now? His legs were round my neck. It--it's
clammy--like having snakes crawling over you."
"We've something to learn from him, Broome," said Dick. "Single combat
won't pay us. We must work round his flanks."
"Flanks! Why, he faces all ways," Broome groaned. "Superman, eh!
Chuck that, Broome--we've got to hammer away till we find his weak
spot. Nothing to fear from the forwards, the wind has them in a
bottle-neck. Let's drop this first-time shooting stunt, and try a bit
of conjuring."
"And he'll juggle better," said Broome, still despairing. Then,
brightening up a little, he cried eagerly: "Here, take that centre from
Lake; it's a ripe cherry, Forge!"
So it was. But the Octopus had a taste for ripe fruit too, and at this
particular cherry he had the first bite.
Though Dick made quickly for the outside-right's fine centre,
Bessingham matched him. Their boots met the ball together, and the
greater force of Bessingham's kick lifted Dick off his feet. He
sprawled yards within the penalty-area, with a conviction that
something awkward had happened to his big toe.
"Penalty, penalty!" roared some of the crowd. It is the habit of
football spectators to claim free kicks when things like this happen.
To eyes blinded by prejudice it looked as though Dick had been roughly
kicked about, but the players and the referee knew better. In a
straight-out trial of physical strength, the sturdy captain of Foxenby
had come off second-best. Moreover, he limped a little as the result,
which was more ominous still.
"What did I tell you, kid?" said the Junior Cuthbertian, taking heart
of grace. "You can't get past old 'Bess'. Old Bess is a brick wall.
Old Bess is a house-side!"
"He's a clinking player, I admit," said Robin, "but who'll pay the
doctor's bill if he kicks somebody's teeth out?"
"That's your affair," snapped Cuthy. "Perhaps you'd like old Bess to
play on crutches to give your forwards a chance."
"He's not All England versus The Rest," retorted Robin. "We'll make
rings round him yet."
Spoken like a true optimist, Robin! But spectators cannot win games,
however loyal they may be, and rose-coloured spectacles are as useless
in football as in any other field of activity. Bluff could not
disguise that the luck had again turned against Foxenby. The sun came
out and shone in their eyes and the wind suddenly moderated. Forwards
who had stood idly on the half-way line (glad enough to rest after
their first-half exertions) now found it possible to pick up
Bessingham's big kicks and move towards Ennis again. True, they kept a
respectable distance from Lyon and Lebberston, and only sent in
long-range shots with little powder behind them. Ennis, ever reliable,
hugged them safely to his breast and punted them back with ease. All
very well and good; but each movement in his direction brought relief
to St. Cuthbert's defenders, and cut down Foxenby's scoring chances at
the same time.
The gathering behind the top goal thinned a little as some of the crowd
drifted speculatively down the field. They thought they saw a prospect
of a bit of sport at the other end. There was always a chance of
Ennis's sun-dazzled eyes failing to judge a straight one, however
languidly the ball were kicked.
Gradually the outlook became darker for the Foxes. Broome appeared to
have lost heart and could do nothing right. Atack, the inside-right,
quite openly shrank from close contact with the Octopus. He had once
chanced his arm in a flying charge at Bessingham, and had been feeling
it ever since in the fear that it was dislocated. Lake, bothered by
the sun, kept missing his luck entirely and blundering into touch. All
he could do, it seemed, was to tread down the flags and inconvenience
the linesmen. Meynard, the swift-footed outside-left, certainly kept
cool, but that was because he had little to do. He waited in vain to
be fed by Broome, who seemed always under Bessingham's feet.
It didn't mend matters when the Foxenby halves lost patience with the
men in front of them and commenced to play hard on top of them. Not
being marksmen, they drew upon themselves the ironical contempt of the
crowd by shooting high over goal--"aiming at the new moon", to quote
the gleeful opinion of "Cuthy", who had once more become offensively
cocksure of his team's abilities.
Precious time oozed away while spectators retrieved the ballooned ball,
and all the while Dick's big toe hurt like toothache. A pretty kettle
of fish all round.
Dick had a temper, and came near to losing it publicly. Again the
maddening voice of the village idiot began to boom at him. "Owd can't
scoöar!" it bellowed monotonously. It had the melancholy effect of a
ship's steam-siren in a fog. It worried the sensitive captain more
than his damaged toe did.
"This is aching misery," he mentally decided. "Hang it all, I'll waste
no more passes on Lake and Atack. Fifteen minutes to go, and not a
ghost of a goal in sight. 'Owd can't scoöar' or not, I'll butt right
into the Octopus and chance it."
From the moment of this resolve a mighty change was wrought in the
game. Of combination there was none, but of vigorous individual action
there was a great deal. Giving his damaged foot no quarter, using it
as though it were sound, Dick dribbled for goal by the straightest
route, clashing against Bessingham each time he did so. It became a
battle of giants, almost too thrilling to those onlookers who favoured
one team more than the other. Players on both sides, brought to a
standstill by the gruelling pace, seemed to have slipped out of the
picture, leaving the centre of the field to Dick and the Octopus, two
gladiators at ever-closer grips.
"Stick to him, Forge!" yelled Robin. "He's cracking up! You'll be his
'daddy' yet!"
"Old Bess lets nobody be his daddy," indignantly retorted Cuthy. "Your
captain's only a kid beside him."
"Kid yourself!" snorted Robin. "Just you watch Forge, Cuthy--there'll
be a hole in the back of this net shortly."
Lyon alone on the Foxenby side gave useful aid to his captain, and it
was from two of the plodding fullback's returns that Dick twice dodged
Bessingham and struck the cross-bar.
Both shots went where the keeper was not--each, an inch lower, would
have made a goal. Such rough luck notwithstanding, "Owd can't scoöar,
owd can't scoöar!" bawled Fluffy Jim, derisively waving his papered
arms.
"Some sort of mascot, this," thought the bitterly-disappointed captain,
"and to make sure I shan't miss seeing him, they flatten him against
the ropes. Fun for them--rotten for me!"
Time travelled apace. The referee looked at his watch--a plain hint
that the end was nigh. Nothing seemed likelier than the match fizzling
out in a goalless draw--a depressing result, satisfactory to neither
side.
Yet there was one among the spectators whose youthful heart declined to
be downcast. One also whose lungs were sound as a bell, and whose
throat was still capable of leading the way in a fresh chorus of
rousing yells.
Robin Arkness was the undaunted enthusiast who started the swelling
cheer which infected the neutral spectators and struck a warm, reviving
glow to Dick Forge's heart.
"Well played, Forge--played the captain of the Foxes!" yelled the
Juniors, in uplifting chorus. "Three cheers for the good old
captain--hip, hip, hooray!"
Ah, what priceless encouragement was this, at a moment when all seemed
lost! To Dick it seemed to bring new life, fresh strength. He could
feel his pulses leaping again as the ball came his way once more.
Broome, too, felt the spur of that timely cheer, shook off his
ill-humour, and sprinted to the captain's side.
"Hang on, Forge!" he said. "Go ahead! Don't bother passing just yet."
Bessingham, cool and confident as ever, bore down upon the pair,
feeling for the ball with feet that never erred. Clever, uncanny
Bessingham! Just how he did it, you couldn't tell, but he nipped the
leather right from Dick's toe, and down went the mercury behind the
goal, changing the Cub-foxes' cheer to a groan.
"Oh, jumping crackers!" cried Robin. "Forge has lost it!"
"Didn't I tell you?" shrieked the delighted Cuthy. "The chap isn't
born that can run round old Bess."
But this time it was not to be altogether a one-man show. Broome did
not fail his captain. The funk, which had weakened his knees before,
passed suddenly away from him. Brain-concussion was the risk he
lightly took as he jumped up to Bessingham's mighty kick and headed the
ball down again. Jove, how it hurt him! For a moment it knocked him
silly, but he recovered himself sufficiently to dribble a few yards and
pass the ball to Dick.
Oh, glorious moment, sweet to have come to see! At last, at last, the
Octopus was beaten--stranded in utter helplessness. His long legs,
stride they never so widely, could not overtake the flying Foxonian
now. His colleagues had trusted implicitly to him to clear; only one
of them could get near enough to Forge to thrust out a hacking foot,
over which Dick nimbly jumped. It was then a clear man-to-man
encounter between centre-forward and goalkeeper, with all the rest of
the players as idle spectators.
For the first time, in eighty-eight minutes of strenuous football, the
Octopus betrayed emotion and spoke.
"Come out to meet him, goalie!" he cried, in desperation.
Out came "goalie" at the word of command, and round him, with the ease
of a dancing-master, waltzed Dick. Tears of real joy stung Dick's
eyelids, for there in front of him yawned the empty goal that nobody
could miss. To make assurance doubly sure, he would not even risk a
gentle kick, but would, he told himself, walk the ball into the net.
Oh, surely the Cup was Foxenby's now!
And then, right across his path, almost beneath the cross-bar, there
came blundering an absurdly clumsy figure in blue-and-white paper
trappings--the grotesque form of Fluffy Jim, the village idiot, who
lunged at the ball with a hobnailed boot and kicked it into the net
under the very eyes of the horrified captain.
"Theer!" cried Fluffy Jim, with a shriek of imbecile laughter. "Tha
couldn't scoöar thesen, so Ah've scoöared for thee!"
Poor Forge! Unlucky captain of the luckless Foxes! What miserable
turn of events was this? Why had so farcical a thing come to mock him
on the very verge of his triumph? A wild absurdity, yet an unspeakable
misfortune! It made him feel dazed and stupid. There was a queer
vagueness in the impression he got of an excited crowd of spectators
and players falling upon Fluffy Jim and tearing to tatters his
blue-and-white costume. He felt himself pulled hither and thither by
roughly-sympathizing hands, and with difficulty wrenched himself free.
Then up strode the Octopus, genuinely distressed and grimly resolute.
"Forge," said the Octopus, "the goal was yours and the game is yours.
You will take the Cup."
"I can't," said Dick despairingly. "I didn't score."
Bessingham turned abruptly to the referee.
"Sir," he said, "that was Forge's goal--this is Foxenby's game. Give
them the verdict."
The referee was a big man, nearing middle age, who had ruled exciting
games before Bessingham was born. He knew the laws of football from A
to Z--had, indeed, helped to make not a few of them. And pleading with
him to alter those rules, even by a hairsbreadth, was merely a way of
wasting breath.
"Impossible," he said. "I'm sorrier than I can say, but Regulation 17
definitely rules that, if all or any portion of the crowd encroaches on
the ground during the game, the tie shall be replayed in its entirety.
The spectator broke in--that washes out the match."
"No, no, I beg of you," the Octopus pleaded. "Restart the game here
and now, and I'll see that all comes right. Foxenby's won, sir--be a
sport!"
"I'm a referee first--a sport afterwards," said the whistle-blower,
sharply. "Time!"