There couldn't be much more than a minute to play now. When Sheffield lined up against the Elkana center once more, he spat out a curt, "Everybody in it this time," and jumped and batted the ball to S. S. That in was the signal for the old forward crisscross. Bunny shook his head doubtfully, but ran to his place.
The ball darted to and fro, like a swallow winging for safety: from S. S. to Bi, from Bi to Jump, from Jump to Bunny. Everybody was running and shouting, quite as if each player had gone suddenly insane. "Here you are!" somebody would call. "Shoot it!" "Watch out!" "Careful!" "Plenty of time!" "Plenty of time!" And then, having tantalized some opposing rusher, "Come on!" "Shoot it!"
By now, Sheffield was down the floor, in front of the basket and a little to the left. But Bunny was as close on the other side and less carefully guarded. Elkana, you see, had discovered that Lakeville's captain was usually the final link between the last pass and the try for goal. As a result, its players were beginning to watch him like hawks.
"Shoot it!" yelled Sheffield, trying vainly to shake off the Elkana guard.
Bunny bounced the ball long enough to give this order time to register in his brain. "He means for me to try for a basket," he decided happily. He tapped the ball to the floor again. "And I can make it, too; I know I can."
None of the Elkana players seemed to be worrying about him in the least. Bunny dribbled the ball a little nearer the goal, keeping a wary eye on Sheffield, who was twisting and doubling and flopping about, like a—like a chicken with its head off.
"That's just what he looks like," Bunny grinned to himself. "Shucks! If I did pass him the ball, he'd throw it wild. He's done it three times now."
"Shoot it!" ordered Sheffield, in a frenzy of excitement. He ran back a few steps and threw up his hands. Bunny wanted to think he was pointing toward the goal, but some curious prick of his conscience suggested that he might be motioning for a catch.
There was only a second or two to decide now. Down in his heart, Bunny was sure—absolutely sure—that he could make the goal. He could already see himself holding the ball with both hands in front of his chest, pushing it upward till his arms were straight from shoulders to fingertips, and launching it, straight and true, upward and over and down, in a great looping shot that would nestle it in the swaying net below the iron hoop. He knew, just as certainly as he knew he was standing there, that he could score that goal.
"And I don't think Sheffield can," he argued stubbornly. "He—he's like a chicken with its head off."