“Six minutes left,” growled Curran, at Toby’s side. “Why don’t we open up? Winfield acts as if we hadn’t a play in the bag but line-plunges!”
Noyes, nearby, almost too wearied to hold up his head, grunted.
“They know everything we’ve got, Curran,” he said. “Watch them when we give the signals. They’re wise to every move! And those backs are wonders! We can’t get away from ’em.”
“Well, we might try!” retorted Curran savagely. “No use lying down, is there? There we go, back at the old hammer again! What’s Tom up to? Oh, Winfield’s coming off. You in again? But you can’t. Who’s Mr. Lyle after? It’s you, Tucker! Boy, it’s you! Remember those signals and shake it up, Tucker, shake it up!”
“Tucker! Come on, come on!” Mr. Lyle was calling and beckoning. Toby, with heart pounding and his throat hot, ran to him on the side-line. “Here’s your chance. Know the signals? Good! Get in there and put some punch into that team. Tell Fanning I say he’s got to open up. Tell him the time’s come to score! Give ’em some running plays, boy. Put ginger into that bunch. Here, Snow! Go in for Casement. All right, Tucker! Beat it!”
Cheers and more cheers, cheers for Winfield and for Casement, cheers for the substitutes speeding on, cheers from across the field, a medley of mad sound that beat on Toby’s ears like a cataract. Then he was in the squad, Fanning twitching him aside, Arnold thumping him on the back, Snowden, white and gasping, patting his shoulder imploringly. “Let me get at ’em, Tucker, will you? Let me try ’em, will you? Let me——”
“Shut up, Larry! What’s the word?” Tom Fanning pulled Toby away. Toby gave the message.
“All right! Open her up! We’ve tried their line until we’re sick of it! There’s six minutes yet, nearly. Come on, Yardley! Let’s get it, let’s get it! We can do it! What do you say?”
“Signals!” shrilled Toby, his voice pitching itself up amongst the clouds as it seemed to him. “Signals!”