“Well, they’re going to!” exclaimed the coach. “But about Clinton; you don’t think he’s any more likely to be hurt than any other player—nor as much, do you? He’s well protected.”
“Yes, I know; but Phil hasn’t been himself for the last two days. I don’t know what it is that’s bothering him, but it’s something. He doesn’t say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he’d had with Tom, but they’re such good friends I didn’t give that much concern. Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told me yesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don’t know what it is, but he’s certainly not himself.”
“Oh, you imagine too much!” declared Mr. Lighton with a laugh. “Clinton is all right. He’s a plucky lad. He’ll play as long as he can stand. Look at that game with Wescott.”
“Yes, I know; but I——”
“Now, you stop worrying. You’re as bad as a girl. But I guess it’s almost time to begin.”
Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. The grandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vast chessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boys mingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-hued ribbons and flags waving over all.
Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of Boxer Hall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similar positions—full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, and Captain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held a final consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a word of encouragement.
“All I’ve got to say,” he remarked simply, “is to play until you can’t play any more.”
“That’s right,” added the coach. “And don’t forget about the possibility of a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about the sequences. I’ll depend on you for that, Clinton.”
“All right,” responded Phil.