Andy took his old place. He was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. He was terribly jarred, for Mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice.
Andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. He could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. He looked over at Mortimer, who grinned maliciously. Andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. But there was no earthly use in speaking of it. Rather would it do him more harm than good. This, then, was part of the “getting even” game that his enemy had marked out.
“He won’t get me again, though!” thought Andy, fiercely. “If he does, it will be my own fault. Wait until I get a chance at him!”
It came sooner than he expected. The forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays.
Several times Mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. Then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs.
“What do you fellows mean?” cried Holwell. “Letting ’em go through you this way! Get at ’em! Break up their plays if you can! Block their kicks. They’ll think they’re playing a kid team! I want ’em to work! Smash ’em! Kill ’em!”
He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet—a veritable little cyclone of a coach.
“Signal!” he cried sharply.
It came from the varsity quarter, and Andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that Gaffington was to take the ball.
“Here’s where I get him!” muttered Andy, fiercely.