After a little preliminary practice the two teams were told to line-up for a short game of fifteen-minute halves. Coach Lighton named those who were to constitute a provisional ’varsity eleven, and, to his delight, Tom’s name was among the first named. Phil went to quarter, naturally, and several of Tom’s chums found themselves playing with him.
“Now try for quick, snappy work from the start,” was the advice of the coach. “Play as though you meant something, not as if you were going on a fishing trip, and it didn’t matter when you got there.”
The ball was put into play. The ’varsity had it, and under the guidance of Phil Clinton, who gave his signals rapidly, the scrub was fairly pushed up the field, and a little later the ’varsity had scored a touchdown. Goal was kicked, and then the lads were ready for another tussle.
The scrub, by dint of extraordinary hard work, managed to keep the ball for a considerable time, making the necessary gains by rushes.
“We must hold ’em, fellows!” pleaded Phil, and Captain Holly Cross added his request to that end, in no uncertain words.
Shipman, the scrub quarter, passed the pigskin to his right half-back, and the latter hit the line hard. Phil Clinton, seeing an opening, dove in for a tackle. In some way there was a fumble, and Phil got the ball. The next instant Jerry Jackson, who was on the ’varsity, slipped and fell heavily on Phil’s right shoulder. The plucky quarter-back stifled a groan that came to his lips, and then, turning over on his back, stretched out white and still on the ground.
“Phil’s hurt!” cried Holly Cross. “Hold on, fellows!”
Tom bent over his chum. He felt of his shoulder.
“It’s dislocated,” he said. “We’d better get the doctor for him, Holly.”