Pinstock, Boxer’s left half-back, made a magnificent drive, and Holly Cross had to skip nimbly back to catch it. But once he had the pigskin in his grasp he eluded the Boxer ends, and was well toward the center of the field before he was downed.
“Our ball!” cried Tom gleefully, and then there came the chance for Randall to show what she could do.
“Signal!” cried Phil, and his companions wondered at the odd note that had crept into his voice. It was not of the confident style of orders that the quarter-back was wont to give. But, as the string of numbers and letters came rattling out, Phil, in a measure, recovered control of himself. He gave the word for Kindlings to take the ball at Boxer’s left-end, and smash! into the line went the brawny right half-back. He gained ten yards so quickly that Boxer Hall was fairly stunned, and when Holly Cross ripped out eight yards additional the crowd of Randall supporters were in a mad frenzy of delirious joy.
“Swat ’em! Swat ’em! We have got ’em!” howled Bean Perkins, and forth from hundreds of throats came booming that song.
Grasshopper Backus and Dutch Housenlager opened a great hole between their opposite guard and tackle, and into this breach Jerry Jackson was pulled and hurled for several yards, until he fell under a crushing weight of husky players at Boxer’s thirty-yard-line. Once more Phil’s voice sang out in a signal, and back he snapped the ball to Holly Cross, who, like some human battering ram, went through for five yards more. It looked as if Randall was going right down the field for a touch-down, and Bean Perkins and his cohorts rendered the “Down the Line” song with good effect.
A touch-down might have resulted from the next play, but unfortunately for Randall Jerry Jackson made a fumble, and in their anxiety several of his mates held in the line. There was a prompt penalty enforced, and back to the forty-yard line the pigskin was taken, where it was turned over to Randall for another try. Randall’s hard work had not gained her much, and there was an ominous silence on the part of the cheering throng. Once more came rushing tactics, and they succeeded so well that in two downs the ball was carried to Boxer’s thirty-yard line. Then Holly Cross decided to try for a field goal, but the wind carried it to one side, and his mates groaned. So did Bean Perkins and his comrades.
“Isn’t that a shame!” exclaimed Madge Tyler to Ruth Clinton.
“Hush, Madge!” answered Ruth. “I want to watch the game. I can’t talk. I want to see what Phil does. I’m afraid he’ll be hurt.”
“Aren’t you worried about Tom Parsons, too?”