A helper raced on with a slopping pail. Danny's fingers went exploring.
"Ankle," groaned Benson, and Danny shot a triumphantly accusing look at Coach Robey. In a minute Benson was being helped off and the game was on again, but Mr. Robey showed a distinct aversion to meeting the trainer's glance. Later, in the gymnasium, it was known that Benson had hurt the bad ankle again and would not be able to play the game through on Saturday, even if he was allowed to get into it at all. Coach Robey accepted the tidings with a shrug and a scowl.
"Fine!" he said sarcastically. "Claflin's left end is the best player they've got. Roberts will stand a fine chance against him! Look here, Danny, I thought you said Benson's ankle was all right?"
"So I did! And so it was all right!" sputtered Danny. "But I didn't say he could go out an' play on a field like that to-day, did I?"
"All right. It can't be helped now. Where's Captain Miller?"
Danny bent his head backward toward the rubbing room. "In there," he answered shortly.
"Heard about Benson?" asked the coach.
Andy, looking a trifle pale and tired, nodded silently as the rubber kneaded his back. Mr. Robey frowned a moment.
"You'll have to change over," he said finally. Andy grunted agreement. "And we'll have to take Turner or Edwards from the second to-morrow and beat him into shape."
"Edwards is the better," said Andy.