“Oh, you and your Latin!” exclaimed Tom. “Don’t we get enough of that in class.”
“It’s a fine language,” went on Molloy, who was a good classical scholar. “But suppose we line up and run a bit.”
The practice was over, the preliminaries had all been arranged, the new ball was brought out and handed to Boxer Hall, for Captain Stoddard had won the toss, and elected to kick off. The yellow spheroid was placed on the center line, on top of a little mound of earth.
“Are you all ready?” asked the referee, and Captain Holly Cross cast a quick eye on his team, which, spread out on their field, was like an aggregation of eager foxhounds, waiting for the start.
“Ready,” answered Holly.
“Ready,” responded Stoddard.
The whistle sounded shrilly, and a moment later Pinkey Davenport’s good right toe had met the pigskin with a resounding “thump,” and the ball was sailing toward the Randall goal.
Jerry Jackson caught it and began scuttling back toward the center of the field. Tom, with Ed Kerr and Bricktop Molloy, formed interference for him, and with their efficient aid Jerry rushed the leather back for thirty yards, or to within five yards of the middle of the gridiron. There he was downed with a vicious tackle by Dave Ogden, who had managed to get through between Tom and Bricktop, though they flung themselves at him. Jerry lay still for a moment after falling, with the ball tightly clasped in his arms. Captain Cross ran to him.
“Hurt?” he asked anxiously.