“Look out for yourself, Tom,” cautioned Jack.
“Why?”
“Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball and spoil a play. Then he’ll accuse you of losing the game.”
“I’ll watch out.”
The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs, with the best players making the most gains. The ball was slowly forced down the field toward the Holwell goal.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” screamed the supporters of our hero’s college, and there were many of them.
“Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight—nine—twenty-one!” called Sam.
It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre. It was almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom had not been given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart burned against his enemy; yet what could he do?
The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to snap the ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to the full-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed. There was a fumble. The ball was dropped.
“Grab it! Fall on it!” yelled half a dozen Holwell players.