"Good work, Prescott," nodded Len Spencer. "Now, pass your orders for the next play, then hustle into line and snap-back."
Len placed the whistle between his lips and was about to blow it when Dave Darrin darted forward, holding up one hand.
"What's the trouble?" asked Len.
"Mr. Referee, count the men on the other team."
"Fifteen players," summed up Len. "That's too many. Captain Craig, you'll have to shed four men."
"Oh, let him have 'em all," begged Dick serenely. "Craig'll need 'em all to keep us from breaking through with the ball."
At blast of the whistle the pigskin was promptly in play again, both teams starting in with Indian yells. There was plenty of enthusiasm, but little or no skill. The thing became so mixed up that Len ran closer.
A human heap formed. Greg Holmes was somewhere down near the bottom of that mix-up, holding on to the ball for all he was worth. Over him sprawled struggling Rangers and fighting Rustlers. Other players, from both teams, darted forward, hurling themselves onto the heap with immense enthusiasm.
"The ball is down," remarked one eager young spectator disgustedly. "Len oughter blow his whistle."
"Yes, where's the whistle?" demanded other close-by spectators.