“Kick formation!” called M’Crae hoarsely. “Twenty-two, twenty-six, fourteen—”
Dixon plunged at Cal and Cal threw himself in his path. There was the sound of boot against ball and he was racing down the field. Ahead of him a Hall back was signalling a fair catch. Then came a shout. The back had missed the ball. Pandemonium broke loose on the House side. Cal, racing up, found Spud snuggling the ball to his arms, with half a dozen players above him.
“House’s ball!” cried the referee. “First down!”
“Line up, fellows! Get into this now! Here’s where we score!”
That was Brooks, ecstatic. The ball was on Hall’s thirty-two yards and there remained eight minutes of time; plenty of time to win or lose. Brooks went down the line, thumping backs, encouraging, entreating.
“Play hard, House! Here’s where we win! Play hard, hard, HARD!”
“Watch for a forward pass!” shouted Grow as the quarter knelt. Cal could hear Brooks panting like a steam-engine beside him. Dixon, his opponent, shifted warily, his eyes flitting from Cal to the ball. The signal came. Cal wondered if he had got it right, but there was no time for speculation. The lines clashed. Dixon pulled him in and went through. But the play was safe, Boyle, whirling like a Dervish with the oval tightly clasped in his arms, getting past tackle on the other end.
“Second down! Seven to go!”
“Signal!” piped M’Crae. “Signal! Sixty-two, forty-one, thirteen, twenty-eight—”
Cal shot across at Pete Grow, Brooks in advance, and Ned slammed by tackle for two yards more. But there was still five to go and the backs eyed M’Crae and their captain anxiously as the teams lined up again. Brooks had been playing for a touchdown, but now it seemed that a try at a field-goal was all that remained, for five yards was more than they could hope to tear off at one try. But the ball, although well inside the thirty yard-line, was near the side of the field and the goal angle was extreme.