"All right, Perry," called Chester. "Sorry! Let's have that head-guard."
The players clustered around Morris and thumped him ecstatically. Perry Hull trotted disconsolately off and the whistle blew again. Clearfield sprang back to position. Beaton, following Hull from the field and dragging his feet wearily as he went, offered a jumbled, inarticulate prayer for victory.
"All right now, Clearfield!" shouted Chester cheerily. "Here's where we score! Everyone into this hard!"
On the bench, Fudge Shaw, taking the place beside Dick left vacant by Morris, whispered nervously: "Is he g-g-going to t-t-t-try it now, D-D-Dick?"
Dick, his hands clutching his crutches tensely, his face rather white and strained, nodded without turning. Fudge gave vent to a huge sigh.
"Gee!" he muttered fervently. "I hope it g-g-goes!"
Then Cottrell's voice came sharply across the field again:
"Brent back! Left tackle over!"
Morris slowly retreated to kicking distance.
"Block this!" shouted Springdale. "Block this kick! Get through and block it!"
