“It’s hard to understand how they could beat Newbury seventeen to three,” remarked Sumner, cheerfully. “About time enough left for another touch-down, isn’t there?”
Smith made no reply to this question, unless a scowl and an unintelligible exclamation could be construed as a reply. But even thus Sumner seemed to consider the conversation worth while, for as he hurried back to the side of the Westcott coach, he was bubbling with glee.
With the score nine to nothing and the game nearly over, there seemed no serious doubt as to the outcome. So thought Mac, at least, when Harrison recovered the ball on a fumble near his fifty-yard line, and Pete punted down close to the Trowbridge goal. It was high time that Sumner should appear if he was to be sent into the game at all, but Yards made no move to send him. Mac considered the matter at intervals, while he stood far back waiting for his friends in the line to gain possession of the ball. The result of his consideration was to arouse in his mind the suspicion that Yards was working, not for a safe victory, but for a score which would leave no doubt as to the success of his coaching.
“Jack deserves a chance, and he is going to get it!” muttered Mac to himself. “If it can’t come one way, it shall another.”
The Westcott defence had just thrown back another attempt at a skin-tackle play, and Harrison signalled to his quarter to be ready for a kick. Mac was under the ball when it came down, and slipping by the end, zigzagged a dozen yards up the field before he succumbed to two hard Trowbridge tacklers. Ford came puffing back and took the ball from his hand; but Mac, instead of scrambling to his feet and calling out his signals as the team gathered, remained squirming on the ground.
“What’s the matter?” asked Harrison, anxiously, as he knelt beside him.
“My right ankle!” groaned Mac, twisting his face into an expression of frightful pain.
Time was called; Mike appeared with his water pail and sponge, closely followed by Yards. Together they rubbed the injured joint, while Mac writhed and moaned.
“How much time is left?” he asked.
“Three minutes.”