“He’s too quick for me,” growled Vose. “He won all right.” And he felt gingerly of his nose, which had a reddened and swollen look.
The Principal glanced at the clock on his desk. “Well, one thing is certain, boys. None of us will see that game if we stay here much longer.” He pressed a button and a bell tinkled somewhere at the back of the house. “Minnie will take you to the bathroom. I’d advise you to bathe your faces before returning to society. Here she is. Run along now.”
“And—and may I play, sir?” asked Harry anxiously.
“I suppose so. You’d both better come back Monday morning and we’ll look into this a little more closely. For the present the matter stands. Go ahead and play, Danforth, if they need you. We’ll thresh all this out another time.”
VIII
The scoreboard still told the same tale, and the third period was half gone. Down near the St. Matthew’s thirty-yard line the Brown was charging desperately, and one white streak after another was passing slowly, but, as it seemed, surely, under the grinding feet of the two teams. St. Matthew’s was on the defensive indeed, for the intermission had failed to bring back more than a little of the power and snap of their early performance. It was with them now only a question of keeping the Brown at bay, but the Brown was becoming more difficult every minute. What Coach Worden had said to them in the gymnasium between the halves will probably always remain a secret, but the result was plain to all. At last Barnstead was playing as she could play, as she might have played from the first. But the Fates were still against her. Over-eagerness had thrice brought penalties for off-side, and once she had lost a down by the merest fraction of an inch on the tape measure. But, undismayed, she was fighting royally, pressing the Blue before her, determined on crossing that last white line. Bob Peel, disdaining the points a field goal might bring, continued to hurl his backs against the Blue line, which gave way grudgingly, fighting over every foot of yielded territory. Carstairs piled through left guard for four, Dyker made a scant yard off tackle, Norman hurled himself past left guard for two, Peel got four more around his own right end. The pigskin was over the twenty-yard line now and the Barnstead cohorts were shouting themselves hoarse, the cheer leaders waving and leaping, purple-faced, perspiring, almost voiceless. Coach Worden, squatting near the thirty yards, felt a hand on his arm and looked around. The boy beside him had already addressed him twice without result.
“Hello, Danforth! What is it?”
“I’m off probation, Mr. Worden. Please may I play, sir?”
“Eh? Off probation? Why—I don’t know, Danforth. Yes, I guess we can use you pretty soon. You’re sure you’re all right with the Office?” Mr. Worden observed him sharply. There had been trouble one year when a player had allowed his desire to play to get the better of veracity.