"I know, Dick," and Paul spoke softly. "But they didn't play fair."
"That's what lots of the fellows say, and I saw you hit once. I've no doubt but what there was more slugging—but that doesn't excuse us for not winning."
"No, of course not, but——"
Paul was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in," called Dick, but there was no welcome in his tones.
"Say, old man, you act as though your best girl had sent back your letters unopened!" exclaimed Ray Dutton as he came in, wearing a bandage on his head, where he had been kicked in that last heart-breaking attack on the Blue Hill goal line. "Don't be so down and out about it. Kentfield has lost before, and lived through it."
"Yes, I suppose so," and Dick turned aside from the contemplation of the gloomy weather outside. "But it—hurts."
"Of course it does, but all is not lost yet. We have a chance for the championship."
"A mighty poor one."
"Well, it's a chance, isn't it? If we hadn't had so many men knocked out we could have won, even at that. Blue Hill made one touchdown against us by straight playing. We were about to do the same to her. Then they got one on a fumble. It was my fault for being so silly as to be knocked out, but——"
"It wasn't your fault at all!" cried Dick. "No one could have played better than you did. That whack on the head was enough to bowl anyone over."