“Not now,” said Frank, and walked away.
Meanwhile the quarter had ended with the ball on Gold Hill’s fifty-yard line. On the first play, Bradlaugh, left half for Ophir, carried the oval for a ten-yard gain. Little by little, steady as fate, the ball crept to within ten yards of the Gold Hill goal line.
Frank’s interest, for a while, almost turned from Guffey to the ball. It looked as though Ophir was surely due to make a touchdown.
The spectators had gone crazy with excitement. Gold Hill’s players were fighting like so many tigers; and then, out of the ruck of fighting and the tangle of sweating players, the ball soared up and over the field. Ophir groaned and Gold Hill began to jubilate.
That was the only time either goal had been in serious danger, and the half ended with the ball at about the place where it had been when first put into play.
Merriwell led his men to the dressing rooms.
“Fine work!” said he. “You’re going to get a touchdown in the next half, and Gold Hill isn’t going to score at all. I’ve got a hunch—one of the red-hot kind that always pans out. Mayburn, you’re a crackajack! Spink, just keep up the good work! Brad, you’re a star! What’s the matter, Deever?”
Lafe Deever, right end, was limping.
“Twisted my ankle,” said he, “but I reckon it won’t amount to much.”
“Take off your shoe and let’s see.”