“Arrh, me bucko! Good avening,” grinned Carney. “It’s a pleasure to meet yez.”
Through Stone’s mind flashed the instructions of Winton, “Stick by your man and get him every time.”
Muzzle uplifted, Capt. Merwin, who played quarter for his team, bayed a signal. Stone saw the ball snapped to Merwin, and the moment it left the ground he leaped tigerishly at Carney. The Irishman had leaped at the same instant, and they came together with a crash which must have astonished the Clearport guard, for he was literally bowled aside, the Oakdale man hammering through like a battering-ram. Sleuth Piper, succeeding in keeping his man busy, aided Stone in getting through; and Ben was just in time to meet Boothby, who had received the ball from Merwin and was plunging at that very spot in the line. Boothby’s rush was checked as if he had struck a wall of granite, and down to the turf he went, with Stone’s arms locked around his thighs.
“Great luck!” cried Piper, releasing Morehead; but there had been little luck about it, for even as he lunged at Carney Stone had seen Boothby shooting across behind Merwin in a manner which seemed to indicate beyond doubt that he would take the ball. Having obeyed the instructions of the coach and disposed of Carney in a jiffy, Stone’s natural impulse was to meet and grapple with Boothby.
At the southern side of the field the crimson banners were wildly agitated, and a sudden cheer arose—a cheer for Stone. Ben’s ears were deaf to that sound, however; he was wholly unaware that his name came snapping forth at the end of that cheer like a cracker at the end of a whiplash. The fire of battle was in his veins, and the only thing he heard was the booming of his heart like the distant throbbing of heavy guns.
Checked with a slight loss, the Clearporters made ready again. Once more Ben found himself vis à vis with Barney Carney, in whose faded smile there was now a slight sickly tinge.
“It’s a loively birrud ye are,” observed Carney; “but your wings can be clipped.” To which the grim-faced fellow opposite made no retort.
The signal came again, and again Stone and Carney met. This time, locked together, they struggled, neither gaining the slightest advantage. The tide of battle, however, swept to the far end of the line, toward which Oakes, the right half back, was racing with the pigskin.
It was Hayden who divined the play, and Hayden who came leaping to meet the runner. Tackling cleanly and handsomely, Bern stretched Oakes prone. As he rose he heard them cheering as they had cheered for Stone—and he had not missed that.
“That’s the stuff, fellows!” cried Roger. “That’s the way to hold them!”