"Not yet," answered Neil cheerfully. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, I'm--ouch!--I'm all right; a bit sore here and there."
"Devoe's going to kick," said Stone uneasily.
The ball had been brought out, and now Foster was holding it directly in front of the center of the cross-bar. The south stand was cheering and singing wildly in a desperate attempt to rattle the Erskine captain. The latter looked around once, and the Robinson supporters, taking that as a sign of nervousness, redoubled their noise.
"Muckers!" groaned Neil. Stone grinned.
"Everything goes with them," he said.
The referee's hand went down, Devoe stepped forward, the blue-clad line leaped into the field, and the ball sped upward. As it fell Neil turned to Stone and the two stared at each other in doubt. From both stands arose a confused roar. Then their eyes sought the score-board at the west end of the field and they groaned in unison.
"NO GOAL."
"What beastly luck!" muttered Stone.
Neil was silent. Mills and Jones were standing near by and looking toward the bench and Neil imagined they were discussing him. He watched breathlessly, then his heart gave a suffocating leap and he was racing toward the two coaches.