It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling high and far, but Collingwood was under it as it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to protect him.
Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them, was too quick, too clever; Dennison’s attempt to block him off was only a glancing one that staggered him for the fraction of an instant; and the ball had no sooner struck in Collingwood’s arms than Lawrence launched himself and hurled the runner backwards.
“Whew! What a fierce tackle!” ejaculated a boy near Irving admiringly.
“I think Lou did well to hang on the ball,” responded his friend.
Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking in comments which that tackle had evoked. He found himself standing behind Westby and the other substitutes, who, wrapped in blankets, trailed up and down the field keeping pace with the progress of their team.
“No!” Briggs, one of the substitutes, was saying. “Was that Kiddy Upton’s brother? He’s a whirlwind, isn’t he?”
“Looked to me as if he was trying to lay Lou Collingwood out,” returned Westby sourly.
At once Irving’s cheeks flamed hot. He put out his hand and touched Westby’s shoulder; the boy turned, and then the blood rushed into his cheeks too.
“Was there anything wrong about that tackle, Westby?” Irving asked.