“Thanks,” said Monty. “That’s mighty nice of you, and of course I’d like to make good; but I’m kind of scarey, Manson. Suppose I didn’t. Suppose I just—well, just made a beastly mess of it. You see, I haven’t played much.”
“You’ll have played much by that time,” said Manson grimly. “You’ll find yourself about the busiest chap in school, I guess. You’ll probably want to quit more than once, Crail. It won’t be any picnic, old man. But you won’t quit, because—well, because I guess you’re not the quitting kind. Besides that, you’ll want to do your bit against Mount Morris. It’s a chance that—There’s Bonner calling you!”
“Go in for Caner, Crail,” directed the coach when Monty trotted up. “Show a little more speed today. Play as though you meant it!”
The third quarter was nearly over. Caner, just about exhausted, made no demur at being taken out and handed over his head-guard with a weary air of relief. Monty pulled it on and encountered the glaring gaze of Weston, who had taken Blake’s place at the beginning of the second half. It was evident that friendship had ceased, for Weston snarled, “Now, for the love of Pete, Crail, show something! Don’t die on your feet! All right, fellows! Let’s have this!”
Neither side had scored. Substitutions had already been numerous on each team. Coach Bonner was driving the first relentlessly, while beyond the panting, restless lines, Dinny Crowley’s voice barked incessantly. The first had lost the ball on a fumble and the second had been slamming into the guard-tackle holes for short gains and had edged the pigskin back to the first team’s twenty-nine yards. Monty, watching, tried to guess the play, but dared not trust his judgment, and it was Captain Winslow who gave the warning as the opposing backs shifted to the left.
“Right! Right!” shouted Winslow. “Play in, Pete!”
Then the ball went from Monty’s sight, the backfield divided and the linesmen crashed together. For a moment the point of attack was in doubt. Then Monty, hesitating, saw that Winslow had predicted correctly. Hanser was already skirting the broken line and Monty followed. The right side of the second’s line was swinging around behind the runner. Monty saw Pete Gordon go down, saw Tray try for a tackle and miss. Then the runner was crashing toward him. Hanser had overshot the hole and it was Monty who took the brunt of that rush. The second team back went into him like a runaway horse, but Monty got his grip and, grunting as he was borne back under the impetus of the charge, held desperately. For an instant the enemy ploughed on, but then something that felt like a ton of bricks banged into Monty and he and the runner said “Ugh!” in the same breath, stopped, toppled and went over, the runner grunting “Down!” as he disappeared under a half-dozen bodies.
“Up! Up!” cried Weston. “Our ball, sir!”
“Second’s ball,” corrected Burgess, somewhere in the entanglement. “Second down! About seven to go!”
“All right! Signals!” chanted the opposing quarter. “Give it to ’em again, Second! They’re soft and mushy! Easy picking, fellows, easy picking! Signals!”