“Anyhow, I guess we can do better the next time. The trouble today was that we couldn’t get near enough Hall’s goal to try a drop-kick or placement.”
“How near would we have to get?” asked Molly.
“Oh, about thirty yards, I guess. M’Crae’s a dandy from the thirty yard-line.”
“Wasn’t Spud splendid?” she asked. “He just threw those Hall men about like—like straws!”
“Spud’s a dandy end,” Clara agreed. “He played all around Smith. I do wish, though, we might have won. Now we’ve got to get both the other games.”
“And we will, too,” said Molly, her eyes flashing. “You just wait and see!”
The others came dejectedly home and until supper time they threshed out the day’s battle over and over again, Molly taking a fair share in the debate. The general tone was pessimistic, but Molly refused to entertain the thought of ultimate defeat for a moment.
“You’ve just got to win the next two games,” she declared. “And you’re going to, aren’t you, Sandy?” But she had selected the wrong person in Sandy. He shook his head discouragedly.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “They’ve got team-play, Molly, and we play every man for himself.”