Instantly the whistle of the keen-eyed referee sounded, and, as a penalty for this foul, Rockspur was put back a distance of ten yards, with an equal advance for the visitors.
“Don’t do a thing like that again, old man!” exclaimed Sterndale. “We can’t afford it. Hold steady.”
“But don’t you see what that fellow is trying?” palpitated Don, who already was ashamed of his angry action. “He’s doing his best to cripple some of our men.”
“Then let him do the fouling,” returned the captain. “We can’t afford such business.”
There was no time for further words. Scott was deeply humiliated, for he knew he had, in a burst of ungoverned anger, done something that seemed to brand him as a ruffian. And this had happened after he was beginning to congratulate himself on his ability to control his passions when he resolutely set about doing so, for was he not playing football on the same eleven with the one fellow he hated more than all others in the world—had he not done his level best to drag that fellow into the glory of a touchdown?
Now, all in a moment, he realized that very little credit was due him for holding in check his hatred toward Renwood. The scales dropped from his eyes, and he saw it was to avoid humiliation and shame before his father that he was on the team, not because he had resolved to restrain the animosity for Renwood that had leaped to life within him. Of course his father had seen that wretched blow at Powell, and Don dared not look in his direction. He hung his head and was most crestfallen in appearance.
Before he knew it the Highlanders were smashing through Rockspur’s right wing, Powell was upon him, and then he was trampled down as the whirling mass of humanity swept on like a twisting tornado. When this storm had passed, a human figure was seen prostrate and motionless on the torn and trampled turf.
“Scott’s down! He’s hurt! Stop the game!”
Cries of alarm went up, the whistle sounded, and several men bent over Don.
“Give him air! Where is a doctor?”