“There’s nothing back of it,” yelled Bates.
“Oh, my, but this is easy!” cried Ralph Chickers. “Once more!”
“We’ll run ’em right through their own front door!” shouted another.
But the Ripleys hurled themselves against the sphere, pushed, struggled and panted, a compact mass of determined lads.
Lon Bates, in his eagerness, stumbled, and the huge ball rose awkwardly over his prostrate form, amidst a storm of laughter from the onlookers.
“Shove it sideways, Bill Stiles,” yelled Bob Somers.
“Strategy versus strength,” remarked Dave Brandon. “Great Scott!”
The Ripleys had followed Bob’s advice with a suddenness that took their opponents literally off their feet. Before the Thorntons could recover themselves, the Ripleys had carried the ball five yards to the side, then pushed it forward and regained all they had lost.
“Hooray!” yelled Jack. “Keep it up, Ripley!”
Cheers, shouts, blasts from the tin horn and megaphone raised a terrific din, and while the excitement was at its height, George Clayton touched Bob Somers lightly on the arm.