To this proposition Harrison assented eagerly, and went hot foot to warn Sumner that he must bestir himself if he wanted to keep his post.
“Am I as bad as that?” asked Sumner, in consternation.
“You’re not bad, but you’ve got to be better.”
In place of replying, Sumner swung his sweater to the other shoulder and gazed, a sober, startled expression in his eyes, across the field. Harrison stole a side glance at his friend’s face and took his arm affectionately. “It’s all right, Jack; don’t worry,” he said. “Just play your best game, and I’ll stand back of you.”
“You’re wrong there, Harry,” Jack said quietly. “You’ve no right to stand back of me. My playing has been rotten lately, and I know it. I’m fumbling punts and missing tackles all the time. If you’ve got some one else who can do better, I won’t have you keep me on just out of friendship.”
“You’re talking rot,” returned Harrison, impatiently. “Stubby Weldon is no use, as you know perfectly well. There’s no one else.”
Sumner breathed easier. “I’ll do better if I can,” he said.
So McDowell went to Groton to play left end, and Dunn was told to stay at home and rest. He neither stayed at home nor rested. Stover took him to the game with Hargraves and Reeves in his flyer. He amused himself watching the play incognito, and got back before the return train delivered the weary, disheartened team at the station in Boston.
Westcott’s fared ill at Groton. Sumner’s game was worse than ever. McDowell strove like a hero against men a whole head taller and many pounds heavier, tackling fiercely and surely whenever he got within striking distance of the ball; but his opponents brushed his interference aside, charged through him in the line and blocked him off from the play almost at will. The score was eighteen to nothing at the end of the first half.
“I can’t do it!” groaned McDowell, as the players tried to hearten each other during the intermission. “I’m not big enough. Put Hardie in.”