“I see the Register does not even mention your name,” smiled the doctor. “It speaks of the plays of a number of men on both sides, but nothing is said of a chap by the name of Scott.”
“Does it give the line-up of the two teams?” breathlessly questioned Don, his heart standing still.
“No,” was the answer. “It seems to me a very careless piece of reporting, and it’s plain the fellow who did it doesn’t know much about football.”
The boy breathed again, but he still shook a little, feeling a clammy perspiration on his face. He had kept up the deception so long that the horror of the seemingly inevitable discovery was wearing on his nerves.
“Let me see,” said the doctor, still regarding Don closely; “what position did you fill, my son?”
“I was right half-back,” came, rather faintly, from Don’s lips. Then he took a swallow of milk and choked over it.
“But it says here that Smith, the right half-back of the Rockspurs, took the ball round Highland’s end for a gain of twelve yards before being tackled and brought to earth by Garrison, Highland’s left half. What does that mean?”
“It’s another blunder of the reporter’s,” asserted Don, boldly. “He got twisted somehow. Smith is on the right end of the line.”
“It’s too bad there could not have been a good report of the game,” said the doctor. “I hope you fellows will do better next Saturday, for I’m going to see that game if I can possibly get to it. You want to remember that I’ll be watching you, and brace up, my boy. I suppose you want to see the account of the game. There it is.”
He passed the paper over, but it was some moments before Don could read a word, although he sat staring at the print, which ran together in a confused mass. At last the boy’s brain cleared, and he slowly perused the report of the game.