“Yes,” answered the coach calmly. “You’re in, Foster.”
“Oh!” He darted forward, stopped and sprang back again. “Thank you, sir,” he said gratefully.
“All right, my boy.” Mr. Driscoll smiled. “You know what to do!”
Know what to do? Well, he rather thought he did, he told himself as he trotted across the little space of turf to the rope. His lips were very tight together and it wasn’t until Joe smote him resoundingly between the shoulders that he knew he had been spoken to.
“Good stuff, kiddo!” Joe was repeating. “Glad you’re back. Go to it and eat ’em up, Brother!”
The cheering was deafening. Across the trampled field the Kenwood players were already throwing aside their blankets. Near at hand the Warne Silver Cornet Band was blaring loudly, although all he got of it was the insistent thump, thump, thump! of the big drum. Then they were clustered on the side-line for a last earnest word from Jud Mellen and a minute later, spread over the east end of the gridiron, they awaited the whistle.
Myron played through the first few minutes in a queer sort of daze. He got his signals, fell into place and went through the plays, but it was much as though some one else was doing it and he was only looking on. What brought him to, in a manner of speaking, was a fine clout on his head when, Kenwood having taken the ball on downs by a few inches, the play piled through between Joe and Paul Keith and Myron found himself a part of the squirming heap two yards behind his line. The blow from some one’s shoe cleared his brain very effectively and the some one who played and the some one who looked on became instantly merged. Which, perhaps, was a lucky thing, since a minute later, after Kenwood’s quarter had fumbled and Mistley had squirmed through on top of the ball, he was called on to punt.
For an instant his nerves jangled badly while he awaited the ball with outstretched hands, but when he had it between his gripping fingers he forgot. A quick turn, a step forward, a swing of his long leg and a fine, full thud of leather against leather! Off sailed the ball, well over the up-flung hands of the enemy, straight toward the corner of the field. He side-stepped a charging Kenwood forward, went down under the kick and found his place again near the Blue’s twelve yards. Back up the gridiron presently, Kenwood kicking on the second down. Then a fake and a run to the right by Meldrum for a scant yard, a short gain past tackle on the left by Brown, and finally another punt, not so long this time. And so it went, neither side gaining her distance, both reverting to punts in the end.