As the players began lining up, they missed Dynamite. Sudden consternation seized them as they discovered him lying quite senseless on the field.
“He’s out for good. That full-back smashed him. Take him off the field,” a doctor ordered.
“Kentucky, you may call the play,” the coach said quietly.
“All right, boys,” Kentucky whispered in the huddle, “a line plunge. Make it a good one.”
“A line—” Rabbit Jones who started to speak, felt a hand over his mouth.
A line plunge it was, and a good one, but not good enough. The score stood 13 to 7 and all Hillcrest went wild—all but one, Dynamite.
They would have picked Kentucky up and carried him on their shoulders, those Hillcrest fans, but the boy would not have it. “Dynamite,” he shouted. “Save all that for good old Dynamite. He knew it was he or I, and he—he took it.” There were tears in Kentucky’s eyes—and the crowd loved him for it.
“Kentucky,” Coach Dizney dropped in beside the slim boy as the team marched off the field, “you may ride back to Hillcrest in my car. Your friend, Jensie Crider, rode over with us.” There was a strange, new light of friendliness in his eye.
“I—” Kentucky hesitated, “I sort of reckoned maybe I’d ought to see about Dynamite.”
“Dynamite is all right,” was the coach’s reply. “He’s in good hands. He’s with Doc Owslie. He’s a fine, dependable doctor. Besides—” he was tempted to say more but stopped at this. “The other might not be true.”