“Not a bit of it,” Dick instantly answered. “I don’t know where we would have been without you. And I’ve given you chances enough, too.”
“But you gave the ball to Renwood on the third try when the touchdown was made—and that after my run.”
“It was a trick to bother Highland some. Besides that, you were tired, and I had sent you against them twice.”
“Tired! Bah! I was over the line ahead of Renwood, and——”
“I don’t believe I’d got over at all if you hadn’t yanked me across,” broke in the voice of Renwood himself, who had overheard Don’s words by accident. “I was stuck fast when you gave that surge and seemed to pull me right through Hartford. The entire credit of that touchdown belongs to you, Scott.”
This was so frank and honest that Don was silenced for a moment, but he finally muttered:
“Well, I didn’t get it.”
There the matter dropped for a time, the men receiving notice to get onto the field again, the ten minutes of rest being over; but Don had not changed his mind in the least.
The two teams were given tumultuous greetings by their respective admirers, and, as they lined up for the concluding half, it was observed that Rockspur had not substituted a man, while three new players appeared for Highland, being Pell at right guard, Hardoak at right tackle and McCord at right half-back. It was plainly an attempt to strengthen the right wing of the visiting eleven.
“Now, git in, boys—git in an’ win!” cried old Uncle Ike. “Jest show ’em the kind of stuff you’re made of!”