He flung off the fellow who had piled upon him and sprang to his feet. Down the field, almost in the shadow of the goal posts, Bunny was just going down under the tackle of the Belden man who played back. The trick had succeeded. They were within striking distance now. If Bunny had the nerve to try it again, he might score.
Before Buck reached him, the quarterback was on his feet again, dinning his eternal, "Line up! Line up!" As the team rushed forward to obey, the boy spat out his signal, "Nineteen—thirty—seven—four—six!"
What play was that? A cold wave of horror enveloped Buck. His numbed mind told him nothing. It was surely not a repetition of the trick they had just tried. He might have known it would not be, he thought contemptuously; this was a ticklish situation calling for every ounce of nerve a player possessed. Bunny would take mighty good care not to use himself in the pinch. But what play was it?
"Signal?" the captain called.
Again the quarterback rattled off the numbers.
And then, abruptly, Buck's mind cleared. With only a precious yard or two to go, the play must be a line plunge, of course. Tricks were for long gains under desperate conditions. But why "seven—four—six"? the captain asked himself in amazement. That wasn't his signal; and it was only fair, only right, that he, as the team's leader, should have the honor of the touchdown.
"Signal?" he yelled angrily.
A third time it came. Buck knew the play now; it was Barrett, right halfback, between tackle and guard. So that was it! Another fellow was to carry the ball over the line. Bunny was venting his petty spite by refusing to allow his captain to make the attempt.
"Change signals!" Buck stormed.
In his position behind center, Bunny straightened a little from his crouching position. "I'm taking the responsibility for this play, Buck," he said evenly. And then, like a flash, the signal rolled out once more, the ball chugged into the quarterback's hands, and the two teams were scrimmaging.