"Can't help it!" he snapped, his irritation being due to the enormous responsibility which had fallen upon him. "See me tomorrow."
For answer the doorknob turned and the door swung inward. The assistant coach raised his head, about to make angry protest, but the protest melted on his lips at what he saw. Standing in the hallway was the grim and resolute figure of Tim Mooney.
"I beg your pardon, sir—but I've just got to see you tonight!"
"Well,—all right. Come in."
The former Elliott fullback stepped through the doorway and pushed the door shut after him, nervously. He came over toward the man who had been forced into the unenviable role of trying to fill Coach Brown's great shoes, and stood—fumbling with his cap. There was an awkward moment, broken finally by Red Murdock.
"You said you had something important. Let's get it over quickly. I don't feel like...."
Tim Mooney crumpled the cap in his large right hand and raised the fist in an appealing gesture.
"It's just this, sir... I didn't have to—being off the squad—but I've kept every regulation since. And I want to go in. I'd give my right arm to go in. I—I—somehow I feel like I'd been partly responsible for J. B.'s death!"
"You shouldn't feel that way, Mooney."
"Perhaps not ... but I can't help it.... If we'd only won from Larwood. But we can't lose to Delmar, Mr. Murdock. We can't! No matter how strong Delmar is we've got to beat 'em ... for J. B.'s sake. Please, sir ... won't you reinstate me just for this game? After that I'm through. I'll never play again so long as I live..." Mooney choked. "I guess there's no flowers our coach would like better than a victory over Delmar. Won't you let me help try to give 'em to him?"