"Here, sir!" said Frank, jumping up, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer.
"Go out there and take Dixon's place, and for pity's sake get that team together. They are playing like the team from an Old Ladies' Home."
Frank pulled his sweater off with a jerk, tossed it to David—who had hardly time to shout out, "Good work!"—and raced onto the gridiron.
"Who's going in?" was the query that ran through the stands.
"Why, that's Armstrong, the kid who played on the Second team a while," said some one better informed than his neighbors. "He's going in at quarter in Dixon's place. Dixon is all in, I guess."
"A long cheer for Armstrong!" howled the cheer leaders. But Frank never heard it. He dashed over to where Dixon was beginning his signal, for Queen's had recovered a fumbled ball on her own 30-yard line. Frank reported first to the referee and then stepped ever and touched Dixon on the shoulder. "I'm to take your place," he said quietly.
"Get out!" said Dixon, and crouched behind the center ready to receive the pass. But the whistle shrilled and the referee ran up among the Queen's backs.
"Queen's has twelve men on the field, Mr. Wheeler. Who is going to play your quarter? Decide quickly."
"Armstrong, sir," returned Wheeler. "Dixon, go to the side-line."
Chip stood up and glared hard at Wheeler. Then he turned, dropped his head and walked slowly off the field, never once looking back. When he was off the playing surface, the whistle spoke again and the battle was on once more, this time with Armstrong in charge of the attack.