They did not make it a first down, not that time, for, as if he had rehearsed the act, that grinning, leering guard broke through once more and threw Ballard for a loss. As he did so, he hissed some words in the mountain boy’s ears. Kentucky heard it but indistinctly. Even so, his blood raced. His fingers itched for action. As he rose, he stood there like a marble statue, white and cold.
The next play came with the speed of thought and, like a radio flash, was executed. Kentucky went straight through the place left by the leering guard. It looked like a touchdown. But no, he was thrown hard, just one yard from the goal line.
“What a break!” Dave exulted. “First down and a yard to a touchdown!”
The crowd saw it all and went into hysterics. Hats soared high. Girls screamed. An old grad fell backward off the bleachers, barely escaping a broken neck. The bleachers were a riot.
But what was this? Players on both teams leaped into action. They began piling up, pulling and hauling. When it was all over, Ballard, white faced and panting, was dragged from the bottom of the heap.
There had been a fight going on beneath that pile. Kentucky and that leering Naperville guard had been at it tooth and nail.
“He was cho—choking me!” the Naperville guard gasped. “He—he nearly killed me.”
“What happened, Ballard?” the coach asked, crowding in.
The Kentucky boy made no reply. He was white as marble and shaking like a leaf. He turned, pushed his way through his own team and walked unsteadily to the bench to drop upon it like a sack of sand.
A hush fell over the throng. The referees conferred. There was nothing for it, whatever the cause, the Kentucky boy had started a fight. Fifteen yards penalty for Hillcrest.