the big crowd was strangely quiet at the recommencement of play. it had come together with great expectations, promising itself a lot of corking thrills, for the magic of the previous duel between forge and the octopus had never lost its charm. everyone knew that the champions of foxenby and st. cuthbert's must be keyed up to their very highest pitch, and wondered whether, in the time that had elapsed since the last match either of the captains had developed any new wiles by which to obtain a superiority over his rival. the game was bound to be a great one for the spectators.

but on this occasion the scoring of st. cuthbert's gift-goal seemed to have robbed the game of interest. the spectators apparently took it for granted that the cup would become st. cuthbert's, for bessingham alone would see to it that no equalizer was scored. foxenby (silly beggars) had "mucked up" any chance they had by shoving two weedy nippers into the team. st. cuthbert's, even if they failed to score again, had only to play out time to win, opposed to a disheartened side that couldn't raise a gallop. thus the crowd argued, wishing by now that it could have its money back and go home.

well, there is no game so full of sensational surprises as football, and it fell out that the second half was in vivid and delightful contrast to the first. the ball hadn't been in motion two minutes before everybody noticed that something different was happening.

of fancy work there was none—gallery play was to be scrapped, evidently. twice in quick succession meynard got away on the left wing, and put across two fine centres which forge and lake nearly made into goals, one shot striking the cross-bar and the other glancing off the goalkeeper for a corner. though meynard dropped this flag-kick on to the net by trying to make too sure a thing of it, st. cuthbert's were visibly rattled by these narrow escapes.

"that outside-left of yours has got a rare turn of speed," remarked a cuthbertian to lyon. "he needs watching."

so they started watching him, forgetting that while two men are playing policeman to one, his pal goes unmarked and free.

this was where robin's smaller size came in. what could a little chap like that do, anyhow? st. cuthbert's had ceased to reckon him. so, cottoning to a significant glance from his captain, robin stood with apparent listlessness behind the cuthbertians who were worrying meynard, snapped a chance, scraped the ball from their heels, and passed it back to dick, who promptly swung it out to lake. lake dribbled till bessingham came thundering down, and then ballooned the ball back to dick, who nearly made a hole in the goalie's chest with a drive so fierce that the crowd bellowed joyfully.

in this vigorous little scene the octopus played second fiddle, and probably he was more surprised than anybody to be left out of the movement. having, with the rest of his side, held robin and osbody cheaply in the first half, some fifteen minutes went by before it struck him that the improvement in the play of the two juniors was having an effect on the run of the game. and by the time he and his colleagues woke up to the change the mischief had been done—foxenby had scored an equalizing goal.

funniest goal of the season it might possibly be called—either a side-splitting fluke, or a piece of football wizardry never before attempted. only robin arkness could say in which class to place it, for it was that bright-faced youngster who, with his back to st. cuthbert's goal, and just outside the penalty-area, screwed the ball over his head into the top angle of the sticks, from whence it rebounded into play again. robin span round and met it with his forehead, and it flew into the net like a cannon-ball at close quarters, making the astonished goalkeeper look and feel like a ventriloquist's dummy.

the great roar of cheering which greeted this extraordinary goal might have turned robin's head if he had known for certain that it was still on his shoulders. but his delighted team-mates, swooping down upon him to smother him with congratulations, saw him sink to the ground in a dazed fashion, with both hands clasping the nape of his neck, which robin quite thought, as he confessed afterwards, to be broken.

"buck up, kid," said lyon. "my stars, what a goal! the crowd's crazy about it. hear 'em yelling!"

robin looked with unseeing eyes at the admiring sympathizers grouped round him. friendly fingers rubbed him back to a dim idea of his surroundings, but for the remainder of the game he was rather a wan and woebegone passenger. he struggled on, but when "time" was called, and the referee ordered the teams to go straight on for an extra fifteen minutes' play each way, dick and lyon made a chair of their arms and carried the small hero to the dressing-room, feeling proud, for his sake, of the sympathetic cheers which accompanied his exit.

"give my neck a bit of a rub, forge, and i'll carry on," said robin, in a faint voice.

"no, you won't, kid," said forge, gently pinching his ear. "you'll rest your head against this cushion—so—and sip the warm stuff that's offered you."

"but—but you'll only have ten men without me," stammered robin. he made a feeble attempt to rise, while two kind hands held him firmly in his place.

"that's all in the game, younker. don't dare to get out of this chair till we return. you've done your bit already by scoring that fine equalizer."

"i—i—oh, forge, i didn't score it. it bounced off me!"

the captain smilingly patted his arm. "keep that dark, nipper," he advised. "never mind how it happened. the score is all that matters!"

to face extra time with a strong sun in their eyes and a man short was quite on a par with foxenby's usual luck. shrill-voiced enthusiasts urged them to play the one-back game, but dick's idea of football sportsmanship made such advice a waste of breath. he let lyon, ennis, and lebberston hold the fort for a furious fifteen minutes; the only quarter-of-an-hour of the match in which the st. cuthbert's forwards ever made workmanlike attempts to score. ennis battered away a dozen or more stinging shots, and the sorely tried teams, keyed up to a high pitch of excitement by the roaring of the crowd, commenced the last fifteen minutes at a pitilessly exhausting pace.

the octopus, usually so silent, shouted out directions to his halves and forwards—tried, in fact, to lift them on to victory by the sheer force of example.

twice he attempted to catch ennis napping by shooting for goal himself, but the sun was no longer bothering ennis, who cleared with vigour. it was the second of these big clearances which fell at the feet of osbody, and that loyal young gentleman, slavishly obeying instructions, parted with his prize at once to dick, past whom the octopus had rushed in his praise-worthy endeavour to score.

"offside!" yelled half-a-dozen cuthbertian players in chorus. "offside, sir!" they repeated, as the referee made no sign. "whistle there, please!"

it is this insistence on teaching the referee his business which costs so many teams dear. while cuthbertians called reproachfully to the referee, dick galloped on unchallenged, with painful memories of the earlier final tie serving to speed his footsteps.

no half-witted "mascot" in blue-and-white paper costume to cut across his path this time! but he had still to pass bessingham's partner, and that less-resourceful full-back, angered by the referee's disregard of what st. cuthbert's considered a clear case of offside, permitted his fury to outweigh his discretion. making no attempt to get the ball, he took a tigerish spring at dick and passionately kicked him off his feet a full yard within the penalty-area.

"steady, you rotter!" dick could not help saying.

never was there a more flagrant case for punishment, and the referee inflicted it immediately. his arm shot out towards the penalty-mark, and a few moments later he was firmly devoting himself to the hard task of persuading the sore-headed cuthbertians, still pleading "offside", to form up behind the goal-line till the spot-kick was taken.

"get behind, boys," snapped bessingham. "bawling won't alter it. keep cool!"

penalty-kicks are thrilling things at most times, but the situation now was so "nervy" that dick almost wished that the duties of captaincy could be passed on to someone else. the difficulty was that broome had always hitherto taken penalty-kicks with success, and broome was mixing uselessly with the crowd to-day.

who, then, was to take the all-important kick? lyon, perhaps? but the only goal of lyon's career had been scored that day against his own side. meynard or lake? both these wingers had shown a disposition to funk on big occasions, and could not be depended on. that kick was more precious to foxenby than the koh-i-noor diamond would have been, and must not be left to a chance lunge from an inexperienced boot.

"the responsibility is clearly mine," dick thought, as he rubbed his bruised shins. "no use shuffling it. i will take the kick myself."

what a moment of trial that was for the captain of foxenby!

the goalkeeper danced about to put him off his shot, and the thud of his boots could be heard in the breathless silence of the crowd. dick had an instinctive contempt for all forms of parade, and the custodian's ludicrous antics, intended to upset him, actually helped to steady his nerves. drawing back one pace only, he suddenly let fly, and a low shot flashed under the goalie's feet as that too-animated cuthbertian was actually jumping in the air.

"it's in!" yelled lyon, at the top of his voice. "hurrah!"

justice at last—poetic justice! dick forge had scored his long-deferred goal, and it was not in st. cuthbert's power to draw level in the few minutes that remained for play. far from seeming likely to, they were penned up in their own quarters for the rest of the time, a spent force, beaten and knowing it. to foxenby, finishing with ten men only, had gone the hard-earned spoils of victory.

the referee's whistle blew for time—a shrill blast that was sweeter than concert-music to foxes everywhere. then "snap" went the frayed ropes, and the frantic crowd swarmed over the field to become closer acquainted with the heroes of the match.

but bessingham and lyon, two stalwart young giants, forestalled them there. tackling dick, in rugby fashion, before he could escape, they hoisted him on to their shoulders and carried him to the pavilion, where lady maingay stood smilingly ready to present him with the county schools' cup. meanwhile, his arms grew hot in their sockets through the grabbing enthusiasts who sought the honour of shaking a victor's hand. now and again a well-known face bobbed up in the crowd to gladden him with smiling appreciation. roger cayton, featherweight though he was, somehow got near enough to wave before his eyes the latest issue of the rooke's house rag. dick understood the inner meaning of the sign, and the chums exchanged joyous looks. what happy days of co-editorship there would be in the sunny days to come!

it was a crowded hour of glory for the merry men and the squirms too. sufficiently revived by this time, robin was hauled out of the dressing-room and borne shoulder-high to the presentation ceremony. the squirms carried osbody in the same way, and the presence of the eager-faced youngsters was enjoyed by the officials as a pleasant bit of by-play.

"put me down, you chumps!" stormed robin. "you're shaking my teeth loose. i didn't score that equalizer. it just hit my thick head and buzzed back."

"shut up about that, robin," cried little john. "no need to tell everybody you fluked it. you scored, and that's enough!"

"rather!" said david of doncaster. "hold him right up, merry men, where everybody can see him. good old robin!"

lady maingay, as wholeheartedly a supporter of st. cuthbert's as she was of foxenby, made a tactful speech that flattered both victors and vanquished. then she handed the bulged cup (a veteran of twenty seasons, older than any player who had battled for it that day) to foxenby's captain, who found making a speech even harder than scoring a goal had been.

"your ladyship—ladies and gentlemen—i am a duffer at talking," he began, "but i am not afraid to say that i'm the proudest chap in the county to-day." (cries of "bravo, forge!" "played, sir!") "there never was a straw to choose between us and st. cuthbert's, but both sides couldn't win. if old bessingham could have cut himself into two parts (laughter) and had been a forward as well as a full-back, we never should have won. bessingham is a marvel. bessingham is a brick. three cheers for the octopus and his wonderful team, you foxes!"

say, you should have heard the foxes, yell then! the crowd joined in to a man, for everybody loved the octopus, even those whose skin had been scraped off by his flying boots. they called on him for a speech now, and the reception he got when he drew up his lanky form to make it was every bit as deafening as the din that greeted dick.

"your ladyship, and ladies and gentlemen, i'm glad the match ended as it did," he said. ("good old bessingham—real old sport!") "foxenby won the cup last year fair and square, and it was no wish of mine that we should play again. to-day they whacked us beyond question. ('well said, bess.') old forge was the 'daddy' of us all (laughter), long streets and terraces ahead of any player on the field. ('excepting you, bess!') no, not excepting me—good old forge had me skinned a mile at the finish. (lots more laughter.) how did he win the match? by turning two raw nippers into footballers almost as foxy as himself (great cheering from the merry men and the squirms). he outwitted us—made children of us. give him two cups, gentlemen—he's won this one twice! cuthbertians, three cheers for forge, the better captain of the better team."

so dick got another rousing cheer on top of the first one, and foxes and cuthbertians talk to this day of how forge and the octopus clasped hands over the cup and were forthwith "horsed" in triumph all the way from the football-field to the railway-station, so that people who did not know either imagined them to be victorious colleagues on the same side.

"i'll have my revenge on you yet, my honourable opponent," said bessingham, on parting. "we shall meet in conflict again."

"in the final of the english cup, i hope," laughed dick, in reply. "till then, old friend, au revoir!"