His jaw was square; his lips firm. It flashed suddenly on Dale that Sherman couldn’t very well follow his suggestion and continue to preserve a shred of authority as captain. It would seem as if he were giving in to the delinquents and allowing them to run the team. They would set him down as weak and vacillating, and pay less attention than ever to his efforts to make them get together and play the game right. A sudden anger flamed up within the tenderfoot, and his teeth clicked together.
“Chumps!” he growled to himself, his fists clenching. “Can’t they see what they’re doing? Can’t they forget themselves for a minute and think of the team?”
He wished the suspense was over and the moment for the game at hand. Hitherto the days had fairly flown, making the afternoons of much needed practice incredibly brief, but now the very minutes seemed to drag. Saturday morning was interminable. Dale tried to forget his worries by attending to the various chores about the house, but even in the midst of vigorous woodchopping he found himself stopping to think of the struggle of the afternoon, going over the different plays and sizing up the probable behavior of various individuals.
But at last the waiting was over and he had taken his place in that line which spread out across the field ready for the signal. And as he crouched there, back bent, watching with keen, appraising eyes the blue jersies dotting the turf before him, the tension relaxed a little, giving place to the thrall of the game.
After all, why should he be so certain of the worst? Wasn’t it quite as likely that the fellows would be awakened and dominated, even stung into unity, by the same thrill which moved him? An instant later he lunged forward and was running swiftly, madly, his face upturned to the yellow sphere soaring above his head and rocking gently in its swooping, dropping flight.
When Ranny Phelps made a perfect catch and zigzagged down the field, dodging the interference with consummate skill, the tenderfoot thrilled responsive and mentally applauded. When the blond chap was at length downed and the teams lined up snappily, Dale grinned delightedly to himself at the realization of the fine beginning they had made.
But his enthusiasm was short-lived. Parker ripped out a signal, and the ball was snapped back to Ward. Dale drove forward, bent on clearing the way for Sherman. Beside him Ranny also lunged into the mêlée, but the tenderfoot was instantly conscious of a gap between them that seemed as wide as the poles apart. Into it the solid blue-jerseyed interference thrust itself, and the forward rush stopped as if it had struck a stone wall.
“First down!” shouted the referee when the heap of players disintegrated. “Ten yards to gain!”
CHAPTER VII
IN THE LAST QUARTER
As Dale scrambled to his feet and sought his place again, his face was flaming. He had a feeling that he must be partly to blame for the failure. Perhaps he had been a bit too quick in his forward lunge. As he crouched in the line, head low and shoulders bent, his hands clenched themselves tightly. It mustn’t happen again, he told himself.