Time was called for an injury to a Springdale tackle, and when, finally, he was on his feet again, an eager-faced youth was reporting to the referee. “Holman, sir! Left tackle!” The injured player yielded his head-guard and limped off and the new arrival gathered the team about him and for a moment or two there was a whispered conference, interrupted by the referee. Then the panting players faced each other again, the backs crouched behind Cottrell and he piped his signals.
Beaton slammed into the line at left guard and got through for nearly three yards, but Scott had been detected off-side and Clearfield was set back five yards. With fifteen to gain, Lanny tried his own left end, but failed to get past. Beaton hit the center for two on a delayed pass. Lanny got three through left guard. Beaton went back to kicking position and Partridge crossed to the right of the line. Cottrell and Tupper moved to protect the punter. Then the ball was snapped to Beaton, who swung his foot, ran half a dozen paces to the right and poised the ball. Cottrell and Tupper guarded his front for a moment and then the latter swung wide to the right toward the side line and Lanny cut through outside tackle and went down the field. Merrick and Felker had also sought positions for the pass, but Felker was guarded. Beaton waited until the last moment and then, just as the Springdale players leaped upon him stepped back a pace and hurled to Lanny who was for the moment unguarded. The throw went over the center of the line, just escaped the upstretched hands of the leaping Blues, and was caught by Lanny nearly twenty yards away. Like a flash he wheeled and set off down the field. But the Springdale quarter was not to be denied and Lanny was pulled down on the Blue’s twenty-six yards.
Cheers and shrieks of delight came from the stand. Dick nodded to Morris and that youth arose and walked up and down the side line, his gaze fixed anxiously on the teams. But time had been called for Lanny, who had had his breath pretty well knocked out of him in the tackle, and Dick turned tentatively to where McCoy sat further along the bench, blanket-wrapped, his eyes too bent intently on the field. But Lanny was soon up again, and, had you been sitting next to McCoy, you’d have heard a sigh of disappointment.
Chester Cottrell thumped the lineman on the back, hoarsely encouraging and threatening. Lanny pulled his head-guard on again and the whistle shrilled. The backs sprang to their places and Cottrell gave the signal. Tupper received the ball and hurled himself at the right of the line, but the Blue held and there was no gain. Cottrell scolded and raged. A criss-cross sent Lanny three yards through left guard, and it was third down with seven to go, the pigskin on the twenty-three. On the side line Morris was trotting slowly up and down, casting eager, inquiring glances at Dick’s inscrutable face.
“Signals!” shrieked Cottrell. “Get into it now, Clearfield! Make this go! Signals! 81—29—61!”
“Watch for a forward!” called the Springdale quarter from under his goal. “Come back, Holman! Break this up, Springdale!”
“81—29—61!”
The ball went to Chester, Lanny and Tupper swept to the right and hurled themselves at tackle, Chester, his back to the enemy, hugged the ball. Confusion reigned. The left of the Springdale line broke. Then Beaton sprang ahead, took the ball at a hand-pass, and slid through the center, was tackled, plunged on, fighting and squirming, went down with two Springdale backs on him and finally grunted “Down!” The whistle blew and the referee sprang at the pile-up and heeled the spot. “Fourth down!” he called. “Two to go!”
On the side line Morris tugged at his sweater and cast an impatient look at Dick. But the latter shook his head and Morris walked back to the bench and sat down again.
“They’ve got two yards to go, Dick,” he said doubtfully.