“Play a defensive game next half,” directed the latter. “Don’t try to roll up points, but let them do the struggling. We’re ahead, and we must keep ahead. And, by all means, keep your eyes on those half-backs. I tell you that captain of theirs—Young, I think his name is—is a splendid player. He’s full of tricks, and he hasn’t showed us them yet, and I look for a surprise in the next half.”
“I tell you,” said Shriver, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, “that fellow opposite me is giving me all I care to attend to. I’m pretty nearly done up trying to get past him.”
Cole looked alarmed.
“You’re not going to peg out, are you?” he questioned. “I told you, Shriver, that you didn’t pay enough attention to your training and kept too late hours. Now you see the result of it.”
“I’ll stand up against them,” declared Shriver, “if I have to be carried off the field in a wheelbarrow. Never worry for me, Cole.”
“Time!” called the umpire at this point.
“Well, now for the pennant, boys,” said Cole, encouragingly.
And the two elevens walked out for the last effort.
“High School’s ball,” announced the referee.
And on the word that team pounced upon it and carried it ten yards down the field toward Whipford’s goal.