On the bench Dick nodded to Morris.
Beaton tried the left of the Blue’s line and secured a scant yard. Springdale called time and administered to her right guard. Lanny attempted to get past left tackle but was pushed back. Springdale again asked for time. And as the whistle blew a sudden cheer burst from the Clearfield section. On to the field raced two purple-stockinged warriors. One was Chester Cottrell and the other Morris Brent. Springdale in imagination saw the game slip from them then. It would be no trick for Brent to drop or place-kick from the seventeen-yards.
“All right, Perry,” called Chester. “Sorry! Let’s have that head-guard.”
The players clustered around Morris and thumped him ecstatically. Perry Hull trotted disconsolately off and the whistle blew again. Clearfield sprang back to position. Beaton, following Hull from the field and dragging his feet wearily as he went, offered a jumbled, inarticulate prayer for victory.
“All right now, Clearfield!” shouted Chester cheerily. “Here’s where we score! Everyone into this hard!”
On the bench, Fudge Shaw, taking the place beside Dick left vacant by Morris, whispered nervously: “Is he g-g-going to t-t-t-try it now, D-D-Dick?”
Dick, his hands clutching his crutches tensely, his face rather white and strained, nodded without turning. Fudge gave vent to a huge sigh.
“Gee!” he muttered fervently. “I hope it g-g-goes!”
Then Cottrell’s voice came sharply across the field again: