Don kept his eyes stoically on the trainer's. If he flinched a little when Danny's strong fingers pressed his right shoulder it was so little that the trainer failed to see it. Nearby, the Claflin full-back was already on his feet. Tim came over and knelt by the trainer's side.
"Anything wrong, Don?" he asked in a tired, anxious voice.
"Not a thing," replied Don cheerfully. "Give me a hand, will you? I'm sort of wabbly, I guess."
On the side line Pryme, head-guard in hand, was trotting up and down. Coach Robey was looking across intently. Don shook himself, stretched his arms—no one ever knew what that cost him!—and trotted around a few steps. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the coach say something to Pryme, saw the disappointed look on the substitute's face and was half sorry for him. The whistle blew again and Don was crouching once more beside Thursby—why, no, it wasn't Thursby any longer! It was Peters, stout, complacent Peters, wearing a strangely fierce and ugly look on his round countenance!
"Now hold 'em, Brimfield!" chanted McPhee. "Hold 'em hard! Don't let them have an inch!"
Far easier said than done, though! A quick throw across the end of the line, a wild scramble and jumble of arms, a faint "Down!" and, at the right end of the Brimfield line, a mound of bodies with the ball somewhere down beneath and to all appearances across the goal line! Anxious moments then! One by one the fallen warriors were pulled to their feet while into the pile dove the referee. The timekeeper hovered nearby, watch in hand. Then the referee's voice:
The runner smashed into sight, wild-faced for an instant before he put his head down and charged in
"Claflin's ball! First down! A foot to go!"
"Line-up! Line-up!" shrieked the Claflin quarter. "We've got time yet! Put it over!"