Bob Hollister realized this swiftly. He knew the signs only too well.
“They can’t do it!” he almost sobbed. “They can’t beat them that way!”
If he could only go into the game. Just for that last quarter. Surely it could not do any harm. He must do it. He could not sit there and see the fellows beaten.
The third quarter was nearly over when he leaped to his feet, his face white and determined, and ran swiftly toward the house. Dashing inside, he encountered Keran, his face a network of scowling lines, his fists clenched, and one foot tied up in bandages.
“Gimme your clothes!” Hollister exclaimed. “Quick!”
“What——” gasped Keran.
“Blazes!” ripped out the excited fellow. “Your clothes, I tell you! Get ’em off! Mine aren’t here!”
With an exclamation of joy, the other realized what he meant to do. Snatching off his jacket and jersey, he tossed them to Bob, who was already half undressed.
“Glory be!” he cried. “You’re going to play! You’ll brace ’em up!”
Hollister made no answer. His eyes were gleaming. One thought only was in his mind. He must get into those togs and back to the field before the beginning of the last quarter. He meant to play if he never did another thing in all his life. His promise to Merriwell was forgotten. He thought of nothing but that line of gasping, tattered men out there, striving vainly against black defeat.