“He’s run away! He’s quit!” cried Nelson. “What do you know about that, fellows?”
Hooker rose to the defence of his chum. “I’m dead sure Fred is sick,” he said. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a football enthusiast he is, and you never before saw him put up such a numb, bungling game.”
“At least,” said Stone, “if he had to quit, he might have let me know.”
The inexplicable action of Sage seemed to cast a heavier shadow upon the team. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could not help feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the game in a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although they fought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined, undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, the Barvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tying goal.
Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a time it seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute of play, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, the visitors made a field goal.
As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from the Oakdale spectators.
“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys are beaten.”
He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.
It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showers and rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they were disposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. Vainly Hooker tried to defend his friend.
“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excuse for that.”