"Whose ball is it?" he said.
"Ours."
He looked to the other side. Garry Cockrell was supporting him.
"What's the matter?" he said, trying to draw his head away from the sponge that was dripping water down his throat.
"Just a little wind knocked out, youngster—coming to?"
"I'm all right."
He walked a few steps alone and then took his place. Things were in a daze on the horizon, but not there in the field. Everything else was shut out except his duty there.
Charlie DeSoto's voice rose shrill:
"Now, Lawrenceville, up the field with it. This team's just begun to play. We've got together, boys. Let her rip!"
No longer scattered, but a unit, all differences forgot, fighting for the same idea, the team rose up and crashed through the Andover line, every man in the play, ten—fifteen yards ahead.