“So did the coach,” chuckled Tom Hanson. “Anyway, he just told me that here was a good chance to improve my education, and to go on in at right half. ‘Any orders, sir?’ I asked, mighty knowing. He looked disgusted and said: ‘No, except you can tell those Little Lord Fauntleroys out there to bring the ball back when they get through playing with it!’ He was sore, all right.”
“We all were,” said Stuart reflectively. “Forest Hill had been making goats of us for three periods and we didn’t seem able to help ourselves. Gee, we didn’t know enough football to play a night school!”
“Well, that was certainly a lucky fumble,” mused Tom.
“Lucky for us,” grunted Stuart. “Those fellows were so certain of that touchdown they thought they didn’t have to really play. I saw the ball jump out of the back’s hands and I tried mighty hard to get through to it, but Stoughton was in my way. I yelled ‘Ball! Ball!’ until I was hoarse, and no one seemed to hear me. Our line was just pushing and shoving, like a lot of fellows paid by the day! They didn’t seem to realize that nothing was hitting them and that the whole Forest Hill team was chasing the ball! Guess you were the only other chap of our crowd who saw the blamed thing was loose!”
“I thought I’d never get around to it,” said Tom. “It rolled out to the left of our line and I had to upset Lever to get him out of my way. When I got to it luck played right into my hands. It was still bobbing around, with about six of the enemy grabbing for it. Just as I edged in it must have hit a pebble, I guess, for blamed if it didn’t hop about eighteen inches into the air and right into my paws. After that it was easy.”
“Yes, awfully easy,” said Stuart derisively. “All you had to do was get clear of the whole Forest Hill mob and run eighty yards!”
“Well, no one troubled me much,” answered Tom.
“N-no, not after you’d got going good, but I had seven varieties of heart failure for a while. Boy, you surely traveled!”