Again came the attack and Longley, at center, was toppled aside. But the backs stopped the runner for less than a yard gain. Third down now, and six to go. “Watch for a forward, First!” warned Winslow. “Spread a little, Hanser!” But the second chose to punt and Monty trailed back under the arching ball, warily, facing about at every other step to watch the oncoming enemy. Then the ends were threatening and he tried to get the first and failed, recovered in time to send the other sprawling, went down himself under the charge of a big second team lineman, scrambled to his feet again to find the tide flowing back toward him and did his best to get into the hasty interference. But Weston, ball in arm, slipped across the field, with only Hanser on his flank, and, turning, twisting, gaining and losing, was finally brought to earth near the side line after a twelve-yard run back. And before the next play could start the whistle piped.
CHAPTER XX
TACKLED
The water bucket was set on the field and the teams plied the dippers, the trainer watching like a hawk to see that no more than a drop of the ice-cold water passed down the parched throats. Monty rinsed his mouth out, struggling against the temptation to swallow the delicious fluid, and followed his teammates across the center line. Weston was scolding hard and Captain Winslow was helping.
“You’re playing like a lot of mutts!” stormed Weston. “You’re letting those dubs jump you every time! You’ve got to score this quarter, First! You’ve got to do it!”
“That’s right,” seconded Winslow. “We’re perfectly rotten. Let’s show ’em some real football, fellows. There’s fifteen minutes more and we ought to score twice. Just a minute, Gus.”
Captain and quarter conferred aside. The second formed again. Taunts, mostly good-natured but some frankly hostile, passed from the rival groups. Tired, strained faces glared or grinned. Then the inquiry came again, “All ready, First? All ready, Second?” The whistle blew. Weston barked his signals. Winslow and Hanser and Monty shifted to the right. The ball snapped back to Weston. The backs plunged in tandem, and Winslow, the oval snuggled to his stomach, went smashing forward. But there was no hole for him.
“Second down! Nine and a half to gain! On side, Left End!”
Monty was called on then for a slide off left tackle and gained a scant two yards. Weston was on him the instant he was pulled to his feet again. “Don’t quit like that, Crail!” he stormed. “Fight, can’t you? Fight or get out! Where were you, Hanser?”
“Perfectly rotten, First!” growled the coach. “Every one of you was asleep. Hold up, Quarter. We’ll try some new blood. Mann! Train! Hurry up! That’ll do, Spalding and Bellows. All right now. Go ahead. Show some football if you know any, First.”