Ah! Captain Lawrence is down, sliding heavily along the smooth floor; but in an instant she is up again, brushing the hair out of her eyes with one hand and making a goal with the other.
“Time!” calls Miss Andrews. “The goals are three to two, fouls not counted.”
The line-men gather to compare notes on those. The teams hurry off to their rooms, Captain Lawrence limping badly. The first half is finished.
A little shivering sigh of relief swept over the audience. The front row in the gallery struggled to its feet to rest, the back rows sat down suddenly for the same purpose.
“Oh, doesn’t it feel good to stretch out,” said Betty, pulling herself up by the railing and drawing Helen after her. “Aren’t you tired to death sitting still?”
“Why no, I don’t think so,” answered Helen vaguely. “It was so splendid that I forgot.”
“So did I mostly, but I’m remembering good and hard now. I ache all over.” She waved her hand gaily to Dorothy King, then caught Mary Brooks’s eye across the hall and waved again. “T. Reed is a dandy,” she said. “And Rachel was great. They were all great.”
“How do you suppose they feel now?” asked Helen, a note of awe in her voice.
“Tired,” returned Betty promptly, “and thirsty, probably, and proud–awfully proud.” She turned upon Helen suddenly. “Helen Chase Adams, do you know I might have been down there with the subs. Katherine told me this morning that it was nip and tuck between Marie Austin and me. If I’d tried harder–played an inch better–think of it, Helen, I might have been down there too!”
“I couldn’t do anything like that,” said Helen simply, “but next year I mean to write a song.”