"Holes as big as a house," said Fatty Harris. "Asleep! They're all asleep!"
Dink, pacing up and down, waited the word from Mr. Ware, rebelling because it did not come.
Again the scrimmage began, a short advance from the loosely-knit school eleven, a long punt with the wind and then a quick, business-like line-up of the blue team and another rush at the vulnerable end.
"Ten yards more; oh, it's giving it away!" said Fatty Harris.
Stover knelt and tried his shoelaces and rising, tightened his belt.
"I'll be out there in a moment," he said to himself.
Another gain at Banks' end and suddenly from the elevens across the field the figure of the captain rose and waved a signal.
"Go in, Stover," said Mr. Ware.
He ran out across the long stretch to where the players were moving restlessly, their clothes flinging out clouds of steam. Back of him something was roaring, cheering for him, perhaps, hoping against hope.
Then he was in the midst of the contestants, Garry Cockrell's arm about his shoulders, whispering something in his ear about keeping cool, breaking up the interference if he couldn't get his man, following up the play. He went to his position, noticing the sullen expressions of his teammates, angry with the consciousness that they were not doing their best. Then taking his stand beyond Tough McCarty, he saw the Andover quarter and the backs turn and study him curiously. He noticed the half-back nearest him, a stocky, close-cropped, red-haired fellow, with brawny arms under his rolled-up jersey, whose duty it would be to send him rolling on the first rush.