"Mighty glad if you want to," returned Frank, who had taken a great liking to the diminutive but independent Patterson. "It was lonesome here alone."
"There's your friend of this afternoon, Mr. Chip Dixon, talking with Captain Harding. He's quarterback of the eleven, and a mighty good one at that. He can play the game if he can't do anything else. He pretty near runs the team, too, for Harding is not much more than a figurehead, even though he is a Senior.
"There she goes now. We're going to have a line-up, and a bit of a scrimmage, I guess."
"First and Second elevens," cried Horton from the field, and as they took their positions,—"now make this good. We are only going to have fifteen minutes of it. Second team's ball for the kick-off." Jimmy was not in either line-up, Frank noticed with regret, but thought that maybe he'd get in before the end.
"Bing." Away shot the ball from midfield driven by the sturdy toe of Duncan McLeod's foot. It settled in the arms of the First eleven's fullback, twenty-five yards down the field, and that individual came ripping back, tossing the Second's players over like nine-pins, until he had brought the ball back to midfield.
"Peaches, peaches," cried the spectators.
"Line-up, quick," yelled the coach who was acting as coach and referee as well. "You would have gone clear through," he said to the fullback, slapping him on the back as he dodged through behind to take his position at the other end of the line, "if you had used your arm as I told you. Remember it next time."
"Come, now, make it go," barked Dixon, "1—7—33."