The St. Eustace quarter called for time. The battered center and right guard were taken out and their places filled with new men. The timekeeper approached, watch in hand.
“Two minutes more,” he announced.
Syddington’s heart sank; the panting players reeled before his eyes, and he grasped Carter’s shoulder to steady himself. Only two minutes! And success almost within grasp! He turned swiftly to Colton.
“Two minutes, Dan! Did you hear? There isn’t time to work it down. Try the ends; give it to Lane! We’ve got to score, Dan!” He thumped his clenched hands against his padded thighs and stared miserably about him. Colton patted him on the back.
“Cheer up, Bob,” he whispered—his voice was now such that he could only whisper or shout—“cheer up! We’ll make it. Two minutes is time enough to win in!” The whistle sounded again.
“Right tackle—back!” cried the quarter. Carter dropped out of the line.
“Signal! 16—34—58—5!”
A tandem play on left guard netted two yards; the new center was a good man. Syddington’s heart was leaping into his throat and thumping back again painfully. He clenched his hands, watched his man with every nerve and muscle tense, and awaited the next signal. Would it never come? What was the matter with Colton? Did he not know he was losing——
“Sig—” began the quarter; then his voice gave out in a husky whisper. “Signal!” he repeated, hoarsely.
“Block hard!” shouted Syddington.