“That chap Lambert there is slugging like the mischief,” said Hugh.
“Is he?” Hanser chuckled. “He’d better not try it on with Pop Driver, then. Pop’s sore with him, anyway, after last year’s game.”
“I fancy he’s sorer now,” replied Hugh dryly, “for Lambert just drove his fist under Pop’s chin.”
“Lambert did?” asked Hanser incredulously. “Did you see him?”
“Rather!”
“Then it’s good-by, Lambert, all right, all right! Pop’ll get him before long.”
But the next play drew Pop further out and set him to boxing the opposing tackle, and he and Lambert didn’t get together. Grafton lost on an attempt at a skin-tackle play and Keyes went back to kicking position. When the ball was passed from center Pop met the onslaught of Lambert with all the weight of his body and bore him back far behind his own line, to the annoyance of Lambert and the amusement of those who watched. When the ball was sailing down the field Lambert was still giving ground before Pop. Infuriated, he drew back his arm as they separated and aimed a blow. But Pop ducked inside his guard and Lambert’s fist shot harmlessly into air. For the space of two or three seconds the two players stood there, their faces close, and Hugh could see Pop’s lips move. Then, as a Rotan player shoved in between them, Pop drew off and trotted down the field. Hugh wondered what he had said to Lambert.
Rotan came back with a vengeance and eight plays put the pigskin back where it had been. Then another long forward pass was successful and once more Grafton was defending her last ditch. This time the enemy had harder work getting across that last line, but cross it she did eventually, her full-back dragging half the defending team with him as he won the final three yards on a plunge through Yetter, who had taken Kinley’s place at left guard. It was a fine mêlée, that play, a confused jumble of writhing, pushing, panting bodies, and when the whistle blew half the twenty-two contestants were heaped in a gorgeous pyramid above the ball. One by one they were pulled to their feet while the referee squirmed under the pile and located the pigskin a good six inches past the line. But they didn’t all get up, either, for one player with blue-stockinged legs remained prone on the trampled sod, and when, a moment later, they raised his head and swashed the big sponge over his face Hugh caught sight of a mass of yellow-brown hair.
“It’s Lambert!” he said awedly.
Hanser nodded. “I told you Pop would get him,” he replied. “You can’t put your fist in Pop’s face like that and get away with it—not unless you smile when you do it! I guess Lambert’s through. Yes, there he goes. Looks a bit groggy, doesn’t he? And unless I’m mistaken he’s wondering whether the goal post fell on him or he was trampled by a stone-crusher.” Hanser chuckled. “He just tried it once too often, that’s all.”