Time was taken out for Cantrell, again for Katie, again for a Kenwood end, and the game was slowing up. Two penalties were awarded, and the opponents shared them. It was near the end of the third quarter now. Brounker took Meldrum’s place and Kenwood changed her left guard. Myron was dirty and bruised and panting, but so they all were. Chas had a long cut down one cheek that made him look like a desperado, but he was grinning broadly every minute. Jud Mellen was everywhere, encouraging, pleading, scolding, his voice sounding like the rasp of a file.
Brounker got clean away and was forced out at his own forty-six yards after a twelve-yard gain. The Brown flags waved and a great cheer crashed across the field. Myron charged straight at the centre, found a hole awaiting him and sped through, Joe’s voice growling above the rasp of canvas and the laboured breaths of tired lungs. “Atta boy, kiddo! Atta boy!” Back came the ball: Mistley had been off-side. Katie called Stearns around and slammed the ball at him as he sped past, but Kenwood had guessed the play and Stearns made less than a yard. Then Myron had the ball overhead and was watching Stearns running back, far over on the left. A long heave and a good one, but a Kenwood half spoiled it and it was fourth down. Myron punted. A whistle blew.
The mouthful of water no more than dampened Myron’s dry throat.
“Once I saw a whole pond full of this stuff,” panted Chas as he took the dipper from Myron.
“Shut up!” begged the other. “There ain’t no such thing!”
Jud dragged Chas aside and Joe joined Myron as they walked over to where the umpire awaited them above the ball. “How’s it going?” asked Joe. “Some game, kiddo, believe me!”
“Can’t we score, Joe?” asked Myron, scowling.
“Sure we can! We’re going to! That centre of their line’s just ready to cave, kiddo. It’s all-in from tackle to tackle. The new guy they put in for Lampley’s a cinch. Keep at ’em, Brother! You’re going fine!”
And yet the last quarter was many minutes old before Myron found any indication that Joe’s prophecy was to come true. Then, very suddenly, Brown romped through the Blue’s centre and fought for eleven yards before he was brought down. That was the first decisive gain through the Kenwood line, and the Parkinson adherents shouted frantically. But another attack at the same place was stopped for less than two yards, and a third netted nothing. A skin-tackle play, Brounker carrying, gave the Brown five yards more. Faking a punt, Myron sped to the left, cut in and got the distance. Again came the Parkinson cheers.
“We’ve got them going, Parkinson!” cried Katie. “They can’t stop us now! Make this good, fellows! Play hard!”