After this bit of general talk, he selected several of the players for special advice and criticism. Lastly he spoke to the quarterback, whose eyes, although fixed on Stone, held a far-away look, which seemed to indicate lack of attention.
“Sage,” said Ben sharply, “Sage, listen to me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred, with a start.
“Several times you were woefully slow with your signals, and you know that the swift aggression of a team depends mainly upon the quarterback. No matter how prompt and ready the players may be, they can’t play fast when a quarter dawdles over his signals. It’s not like you to be slow, and I fail to understand it. You missed a fine chance to take advantage of a Barville fumble, and, only for Nelson, those chaps would have obtained possession of the ball after losing it on a bungling pass and letting it bound to your very feet. Are you sick?”
Fred’s face was crimson. “No, sir, I’m not sick,” he answered. “I’m all right.”
“Then it’s up to you to get into the game and play as if you were all right.”
“I will, depend on it,” promised the quarterback.
Before the boys returned to the field Roy Hooker found an opportunity to speak privately with his friend.
“Get a brace on, Fred—get a brace on,” urged Roy. “If you don’t, they’ll blame it on our little outing last night. I never saw you so punk before. Your wits seem to be wool-gathering.”
“I guess that’s right,” acknowledged Fred regretfully. “I’ll get into gear now. Watch me.”