Kitty, dropping his blanket, hurried across. The coach clapped him on the shoulder.
“Go in for Captain Doyle,” he said quietly. “And stop them where they are, Kittson!”
Doyle, after an instant of bewildered rebellion, handed the captaincy to Stacey Trowbridge, yielded his head-guard to Kitty and walked off, none too steadily, to a loyal cheer from the south stand. Then a hush fell on the field and the quarter-back’s signals sounded clearly and ominously.
“41—21—64!” A pause, and then: “41—21——”
There was a mad plunge, a confusion of striving bodies and then the fateful sound of the whistle. Slowly the tangled players found their feet. There was an instant of suspense for the watchers on the stands. Then Bursley, jumping and waving, started back up the field and Maple Hill ranged herself behind the posts. The ball lay squarely on the line and the Red-and-Blue had scored a touchdown!
Two minutes later another point had been added to Bursley’s score and the game stood 7 to 3. There was six minutes remaining when the ball was recovered after the goal had been kicked and the teams again ranged themselves on the field. Captain Doyle, blanketed, white of face and dismayed, paced slowly back toward the center of the field at the coach’s side. The ball arched up and away and the players raced toward it. Beyond the further end of the trampled field the sun was setting in a blaze of golden glory.
“There’s Merrill,” the coach was saying.
Terry Doyle shook his head hopelessly.
“They’ll play on the defense now,” went on Mr. Cotting. “It’s a time to try everything we have, Terry. We can’t lose any more and we may win something. We might put in Burnham, too.”