This was carried through, Stone slamming into Carney in the regular manner. Hayden came at him from behind, while Eliot, having secured the ball, sought to race past Pete Long.
Something smote Ben with a terrific shock, and a sudden pall of darkness fell upon him. He sank to the ground just as Eliot was tackled and dragged down and the referee’s whistle shrilled the signal which told that the half was over.
CHAPTER XIX.
BETWEEN THE HALVES.
Stone recovered to find some one sopping his face with a cool, dripping sponge. They had carried him off the field, and he was lying on a blanket behind the tiered seats, over the upper tier of which bent a row of sympathetic faces. His teammates were around him, being kept back by one or two fellows who insisted that he should have air.
“What—what’s matter?” he mumbled thickly, as he tried to sit up.
“Easy, old fellow,” said the voice of Roger Eliot, who had been applying the sponge. “You were knocked stiff in that last scrimmage.”
“Scrimmage?” echoed Ben uncertainly, vaguely fancying he had been in a fight with his bitter enemy. “Did Bern Hayden——”
“It wasn’t Hayden. We tried to fool the Clearporters into thinking he’d again go through with the ball, but he passed it to me. They downed me, though, just as the half ended.”