Fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that Dick himself had made famous in the year before.
"Eighteen—-three—eleven—-seven—-nine!" called Tom Reade, crisply.
The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to make, or to pretend to make. But that nine, capping all at the end, caused a swift flutter in Gridley hearts. For that nine, at the end of the signal, called for a fake play.
Yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every
Gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered.
Only three men on the team understood what was contemplated. Coach Morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the moment that he heard the signal.
Dick Prescott, eager for his chum's success, as well as the team's, stood as erect as he could beside Mr. Morton, trying to take in the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance.
As Tom Reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for Gridley's right end.
Immediately, of course, Hallam rushed its men toward that point.
Yet the movements of Gridley's right wing puzzled the visitors. For all of Dave's right flankers dashed forward, making an effective interference.
Surely, reasoned Captain Forsythe, Tom Reade didn't mean to try to break through by himself with the pigskin.