Don started. “No. What is it?”
“He’s sus-skipped out.”
“Skipped out? You mean——”
“He’s run away. I don’t nun-nun-know what he’s done, but it’s sus-something cuc-cuc-crooked, and he’s run for it. He sus-stole Sus-Skinny Jones’ bicycle and run away on that. Sim Drew has tut-took a tut-team and put after him. I’m going to the cuc-cuc-cuc-club to tell the bub-boys. Come on.”
But Don declined to accompany the little fellow, and Danny skipped away to carry the news to the boys at the club.
Scott turned toward home, for there was no longer any chance that he would meet Leon on the street that night. His father was still away. Till nearly ten o’clock he sat up and waited, still determined to confess everything; but the doctor did not return, and at last Don crept to bed to spend a wretched night—the night before the football game.
CHAPTER XXIX.
ON THE GRIDIRON.
The day, the afternoon, the hour of the game had arrived. Not even at the deciding game for the baseball championship between Highland and Rockspur had a larger crowd gathered to witness the struggle on the field. The sun was shining, but there was a strong, cool wind from the west, and the air was as invigorating as a delightful tonic. The exhilaration of the atmosphere and the occasion had entered into the hearts of the assembled throng, which buzzed with expectancy, ready to laugh, to shout, to cheer, to go wild with enthusiasm over some brilliant play or plucky stand of the favorites in the game.
Ropes had been stretched to hold the crowd back, but they were surged against till they threatened to give way. It was amazing to see in that small country village such a great concourse of people gathered to witness a game of football between two bands of smooth-faced, clear-eyed, clean-limbed lads. Fathers and brothers and sisters were there, to say nothing of many mothers, who had been unable to remain away and who had come to see their favorite sons struggle like youthful gladiators with the sons of other mothers, equally affectionate, but lacking the courage to witness the rush, the clash, the shock and tumult of battle in which these lads would hurl themselves at one another like human catapults.
Highland apparently had sent over nearly all its boys and girls between twelve and twenty to cheer its eleven. They had gathered in a compact body on the bleachers to the left of the grand-stand, and already they were singing a song of victory, which some rhymester had composed to the tune of “Marching Through Georgia.” They were prepared for the occasion with megaphones and crimson pennants and unlimited confidence in the ability of their boys to win from Rockspur on the home ground of the latter team.