BRITISH COMICS
THE TEAM OF AVENGERS
First
episode from The Skipper issue: 217
THE HOODED FOOTBALLERS OF THE FIRST DIVISION
The Torture of the Flying Footballs
A Clean-Up
Mysterious, weird figures filled
the old vault. It was early afternoon, but in this dank, underground chamber it
was always gloomy. “Lights!” growled someone, and half a dozen flares were lit.
The flickering light showed up two shifty looking individuals whose clothing
showed signs of a struggle, and whose ferrety faces were pale and drawn with
terror. But there was sufficient reflection from the walls to reveal the other
men who surrounded these two. Eleven in number, all husky and well built, they
wore white football shorts, black stockings with red tops, and studded footer
boots. The lower part of their attire was conventional enough, but their
jerseys were missing. Instead of these they wore close-fitting jerkins of
black, the black collar of which extended upwards and over their head to form
hoods which completely masked their faces. The effect was terrifying,
especially to the wriggling pair who were held on either side by members of
this strange team. In the intense light the two victims’ faces worked and their
eyes blinked. One tall figure stood out before the rest. He pointed grimly at
the two prisoners. “Jem Todd and Crimp Evans, you know why you’re here?”
“N-no!” faltered one of the pair. “It’s an outrage an’ –” “Don’t lie!” snapped
their accuser. “You know very well why you were kidnapped and brought here. You
are two of the crooks who are ruining British football today. You have been
found guilty of bribing the left-half of Cranford United, and you are found
guilty of kidnapping the inside-right of the same team when he refused to
listen to your propositions.” “Look here—!” protested the shorter of the pair,
sweat showing on his forehead. “Shut up!” hissed the hooded figure on his
right, and his arm received a wrench which made him squirm. “You have been
given a fair trial,” went on the speaker, “and the Avengers have decided to
punish you. You’ll be leathered, and then you’ll be sent out of the country.
Put ‘em in the cage!” Lights were turned towards the back of the big cellar,
and there was revealed a three sided iron cage which reached to the ceiling
overhead. The three sides were of close iron mesh, but the front of the cage
was open, and in through this the struggling pair were forcefully thrown. They
stood there wondering what was going to happen to them, but they soon knew. The
eleven men lined up in front of the cage at a distance of not more than fifteen
feet. Half a dozen regulation footballs were thrown on to the floor, and then
began the strangest shooting practice ever staged. Eleven pairs of hefty feet proceeded
to bang those balls into the cage with every atom of their weight behind the
kicks. The cage was only a quarter the width of a real goal. At that range a
football landed with almost enough force to stun a man, and within half a
minute the two in the cage were howling for mercy. Bang! Bang-bang! Bang-bang!
The balls thudded in and out of the cage with monotonous regularity. There was
always a foot waiting to kick them back when they bounced out again. They
caught the two victims in the face, in the stomach, in any part of the body
which happened to be turned to the front at the moment. Every time the ball
landed there was a yelp. In vain did Todd and Evans strive to fend off the
balls with their hands. They were not strong enough to keep the speeding leathers
back. As they guarded their faces they uncovered their stomachs, and as they
became winded the balls landed with more and more frequency on their faces.
Their noses began to bleed, their lips and mouths were cut, and their
cheekbones were bruised badly. Their ears were scraped and torn; even their
knuckles were skinned. Each one of them was being hit at the rate of a dozen
balls a minute. It was savage punishment, and it lasted about five minutes, at
the end of which time the pair had collapsed to the floor, moaning and
groaning, almost unconscious. Nobody would have recognised them.
“That’s enough, boys,” said the
leader of the Avengers. “Get them blindfolded and on their way. They’ll leave
on a tramp steamer tonight for a country where there is no football for them to
ruin.” Two of the eleven bound and blindfolded the unresisting pair, and they
were practically lifted through a door at the back of the vault. “That’s that!
Our first job as Avengers is finished,” said the spokesman, and set the example
by taking off his jerkin and hood. The others all did the same, and if one of
the many thousands of waiting spectators in the ground above had seen them then
he would have recognised them as the well-known
The power of this man was spreading
through the football game like the tentacles of an octopus. There was hardly a
match now that was free from his evil influence. So Bill Sutton had collected
the team and invited them to join him in a campaign to smash this sinister
influence in football. The vault was their headquarters, and so far they had
been very successful in their operations. Calling themselves The Avengers, they
intended stopping at nothing to ferret out the mysterious leader of the crooks.
It was a game of wits, fascinating, but dangerous, but now as the clock struck
The Knock-Out Kick
A mighty cheer went up from the
packed stands as the home side trooped on to the field. The Branchester captain
won the toss and elected to kick with the wind. The whistle sounded, and they
were off. It was a keen, hard-fought game, well matched and at first very
clean. Branchester were a good team, and Bill knew his side would have to play
hard to keep up their end. But his men were determined to win, and they forced
the game so well that most of the play took place around the Branchester goal.
The crowd worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement at the prospect of early
goals. They stood in their seats and waved their hats when Dick Martin got one
of his lightning shots from bang opposite the centre of the field. It beat the
goalie easily, and Bill at centre-half ran across to slap their centre-forward
on the back when the signal of the referee checked him in his stride. Dick had
been ruled as offside! It was no use grumbling, but there was a good deal of
muttering and growing as the ball went into play again. The home side were
perfectly sure Dick had not been offside. Branchester rallied mightily after
this close call, and there was some sharp work on the halfway line. Their
outside-left was particularly clever, and he made one or two runs which
resulted in Saunders being tested. Then came a mix up right opposite the
They kicked off again, the crowd
having quietened down as football crowds always do when play restarts. Very
grim and forbidding did Bill Sutton look, and out of the corner of his eye he
watched the referee closely. “I suppose he’s in the pay of the same gang,” he
thought. “I expect he’s one of the hirelings of the Octopus. Well, there’s only
one thing to do with a crooked ref!” His chance came five minutes later, when
he was in the act of sending the ball across to his own left-half who was
waiting near the line to trap it. Bill noticed that the referee was only just
out of range, so instead of giving a normal kick he fired with every ounce of
strength he could raise, sent the ball flashing past his own amazed left-half,
and caught the referee with it slap on the side of the head. The ball bounced
back into play, but a yell went up from the crowd. The referee had been knocked
flat. So powerful had been Bill Sutton’s kick that the man was quite
unconscious. They carried him off the field on a stretcher. “I must have
miscalculated and kicked harder than I thought,” muttered the
He did not see Bill’s eyes
following him in a puzzled fashion as he went out to find his car. Crake had
forgotten all about Bill Sutton by the time he reached his big house on the
outskirts of the town. He was thinking of the Football Octopus instead, and
wondering what sort of an excuse he could make. The least the Octopus would do
to him would be to deprive him of his chief source of income for a month or two
by refusing to let him make any of the “safety” bets arranged for the benefit
of the gang. So Crake reached his home in a very ugly frame of mind, and he
passed the evening uncomfortably enough, torn by suspense, pacing his room and
trying to calm himself before his master arrived.
The Football Octopus
There was usually a little social
celebration at the clubhouse following a match, but it never went on later than
ten thirty, and just after that hour Bill Sutton bade goodnight to the last of
his pals and prepared to stroll homewards. The affair with the crooked referee
still rankled in his mind, and somehow he could not help linking the man up
with Si Crake. Bill had never liked Crake, and neither had his father before
him. Another thing which had caused Bill to study Crake a bit more closely
lately was the fact that the man seemed suddenly more prosperous than hitherto.
“He only bought that big new house out at Bankside a month ago. He’s got a new
car, yet I haven’t heard of him inheriting any money. I think I’ll have a dekko
at Si Crake’s new abode,” decided Bill, and he turned abruptly towards the
outskirts of the town. It was a dark night, but when he reached the grounds
which surrounded the house he pulled out his black jerkin and hood and donned
these. It was wise to take precautions in case he was seen. The house was in
darkness. This encouraged Bill to believe the occupants had gone to bed, and he
prowled around softly seeking a method of entrance. “Hm!” he muttered at last.
“French windows on that side. They’re always easy to open. I might be able
to—Hullo!” He suddenly bobbed down behind some ornamental shrubs, for he had just
seen a tall figure crossing the lawn, a figure that was certainly not Crake’s.
The man’s face was turned from Bill, but the unusual height of the stranger at
once made an impression on the captain of the City team. The fellow must have
been six – six, and he was as lean as a pit prop. His limbs were exceptionally
long and angular. His movements were awkward and jerky, lithe and panther like.
Altogether he was a striking figure in his long coat with the upturned collar.
“Funny time for Crake to have a visitor!” mused Bill. “Maybe it’s a burglar.
Strange if I came to save Crake’s new house from being burgled.” Then he
frowned, for the tall man had stepped up unhesitatingly to the French windows,
and had opened one of them with a readiness which proved it had been already
ajar. He parted some thick curtains which hung inside, and disappeared from
view a moment later, the curtains dropping into view behind him. Bill Sutton
crossed the lawn as quick as a flash. He was outside that open French window
only a few seconds after the other had entered. Only those curtains separated
him from the figure of the tall stranger.
“Crake, are you there?” came a
harsh, powerful voice, a voice which was so metallic and forbidding that it
made Bill shiver. “Ye-es!” came Crake’s shaky voice from somewhere within the
darkened room. “Then stop where you are and listen to me. If you switch on a
light or try to see my face I’ll kill, you, do you understand?” Crake’s reply
was even more inaudible. It was obvious to Bill that the stout director was
shivering with fright. “I—I won’t turn on the light, Octopus. I—I wanted to
tell you about this afternoon. It wasn’t my fault. I fixed Grainger right
enough and he was doing as I ordered. He would have won the game for the United
only—” “Only!” snarled the sinister visitor, still from near the window. “I
don’t allow any hitches in my plans. You bungled it. You’ll lose your income
for two months, and the next time you fail me I’ll see you’re put in hospital.”
“But—but I swear I—it wasn’t my fault, or Grainger’s. Young Bill Sutton must
have rumbled there was something wrong with the ref, and he deliberately
knocked him out with the ball so that the ref should be changed.” The Football
Octopus stirred angrily, and Bill heard the man’s joints creaking. “Do you mean
that? Do you think Sutton could place a ball as accurately as that?” “I do.
I’ve seen him do it. I’m prepared to swear he did it on purpose. He—” “Then he
suspects too much!” thundered the tall stranger. “He is dangerous. I won’t take
any risks so early in the football season. All opposition has got to be
crushed. I will overlook your offence today, and see that you are not the loser
by it, but on one condition.” “Yes? Yes, what shall I do?” demanded Crake, with
a thankful catch in his voice. “You must make certain of Bill Sutton before he
suspects any more or has a chance to bring off any more of his fancy kicks. You
must get him!” “G-Get him!” stammered Crake, from the darkness of the room.
“You mean k-k-kill him?” “Certainly I do! What are you squeamish about? It’s
not the first man I’ve had put out of the way by a long chalk. He must be wiped
out, and I don’t care how you do it. I’ll allow you one hundred pounds as
expenses for the killing.” “I—I’ll do it!” gasped Si Crake, from inside the
room. Bill chuckled to himself inside his hood. “Will you, my lad? Not if I
know it. If someone is going to get it in the neck it will be you two, and the
Avengers will see to it.” His eyes were fixed on the curtain beyond the window,
his ears strained to catch the next words of the Football Octopus.
He quite failed to notice that
something was happening behind his back. Four tough looking men had separated
themselves from the bushes and were creeping towards him. The Octopus never
moved far without a bodyguard. Bill Sutton ought to have realised that.
THE TEAM OF
AVENGERS 18 Episodes The Skipper issues
217 – 234 (1934-1935)
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007