A brown-legged player picked himself from the turf with distorted face and plunged at the struggling mass. Somehow he penetrated it and was swallowed from sight. And then, wonder of wonders, the forward movement stopped, the mass swayed, gave before the desperate force of the defenders and moved back. From somewhere a faint gasp of “Down!” was heard. But already the whistle had blown.
The ball was found just past the six yards. Above it lay a grim-faced Fairfield half-back and above him, one arm, the right, wrapped tenaciously about his knees, lay Ted. And, although they had to fairly pry that arm and its clutching fingers loose, Ted knew nothing about it, for he had fainted again!
The home team rushed once, kicked out of danger and the game was over and the crowds overflowed the field, Staunton cheering ecstatically and wildly as she sought to capture her players. But Ted, over by the bench, knew very little of that. He felt Tinker’s tenderly cruel fingers exploring his left shoulder and he groaned. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it. And he heard Thornton ask solicitously: “Break, Tink?”
“Sure. Shoulder blade. A nice clean break, too. He did it when they tackled him down near their goal that time. He wouldn’t let on and he had me fooled till I noticed a few minutes ago that he wasn’t using his left arm much!”
“Hm!” said the coach.
“And that ain’t all of it either,” continued the trainer, his fingers still at work. “It feels to me like he’d had trouble there before. There’s a sort of lump—All right, lad, I won’t hurt you any more. You’re a plucky little divil! I’ll say that for you!”
And last of all Ted heard Jack Groom’s voice from a great distance: “And that’s the fellow you said was a quitter!”
Then, following that beastly habit of his, Ted fainted again!