Then Dr. Scott hurried onto the field and knelt by his son, lifting Don’s head to his knee. The boy’s eyes opened and he gasped painfully, seeming dazed for a moment.
“Where are you hurt, Don?” asked the doctor, in a steady voice.
“Hurt? I’m not hur—— It’s my side—and head!”
The injured lad had tried to start up, but a sharp pain caught him in his side and his head went round and round, while a black shadow dropped like a curtain before his eyes. Blood trickled from his nostrils, his father wiping it away.
“It’s a shame!” grated Sterndale, through his clenched teeth. “Scott’s strengthened the weak spot on the team and made the best record of anybody to-day. With him out, we’re beaten!”
These words were spoken low into the ears of Mayfair and intended for no other, but they pierced that black curtain and reached the dazed brain of the boy on the ground, arousing all his wonderful will-power and bringing him back from the brink of unconsciousness.
“I’m not knocked out!” he whispered. “Give me some water! I’ll play this game out if I die for it!”
Water was placed to his lips, his face was wet with it, and then he got up, with his father’s arm about him. The breathless spectators saw him push that arm off and step away, staggering a bit, but gathering himself and growing steadier. Then, after a last moment of hesitation, the doctor turned away and the players prepared to resume the game.
The Rockspur yell came over the field, with Scott’s name exploding at the end like a huge firecracker. It was a sound to stir the blood, and it seemed to restore the right half-back of the home team to complete strength.
Then the game was resumed. Don caught a look of satisfaction from Powell, and he knew the Highland left tackle felt that he had evened the score.