Nobody spoke to him. He saw Pendon looking at him—and the coach, with an expression on his face that cut into Elton’s heart like a knife.
The teams lined up again. This time Elton was to kick off. He packed the earth with his hand, and balanced the ball on end. Then he stepped back.
“What ’s the matter with Elton?” shouted a voice; and the answer came back like a peal of thunder, “He ’s all right!”
The boy’s lip quivered a little, and he wiped the sleeve of his jersey across his eyes. He would prove that he was “all right”; he would show them what he could do.
And he did. People in the grand stands shouted his name again and again. The captain of the other team watched him closely, and sent the most of his plays around the opposite end from the one on which he was playing on defense. Best of all, as he crawled out from a mass of players after a scrimmage, his own captain came close and said under his breath, as if he were half ashamed: “Good boy, Baby!”
But at the end of the first half the score was 6 to 0 in favor of the other team.
Between halves somebody clapped him on the shoulder. It was Walters. “The other day, Baby, I said there were no quitters on the team. You 're proving it, old man!”
Every man went into the second half with renewed determination. Slowly, a yard or two at a time, they forced the ball down the field. But on the thirty-yard line the other team held fast.
“Third down; five yards to gain,” announced the official.
“4—5—9.”
The formation was quick and bewildering to the other team. Elton held out his hands, palms upward, and the ball struck them true and hard. He glanced at the goal-posts, thirty yards away, and, measuring the distance in a flash, caught the ball with his toe just as it struck the ground. It sailed, straight as an arrow, over the white bar.
The din of the crowd was deafening. Lats sailed up into the air; men and women sang and shouted; the varsity yell rang out clear and loud, and the “tiger” on the end came like the belch of a cannon.
But the game was not yet won, nor the score even tied, The more knowing ones looked at the figures, 6 to 5, and glanced at their watches in apprehension.
Well they might; for the two teams battled grimly as if defeat meant death, Neither gained ground for more than one down. There were no fumbles; every play was well planned and well executed, but the defense of both teams was impregnable.
There were only three minutes to play. The signal came for a punt, and Elton sent the ball sailing—cutting through the air with the corkscrew twist peculiar to good punters—far down the field. The kick was off just in time, for a minute later three brawny men bore him to the ground.
Buried beneath them, Elton caught a sudden roar from the crowd, his crowd, He knew it could have but one meaning. At last there had been a fumble, and his team had the ball close to the goal-line; perhaps had even scored.
The minnte the heaviest player was off his ankle, Elton sprang to bis feet. Down the field, perhaps twenty yards from the goal, the referee was holding the hall.
Elton ran forward. There was a rapidly growing pain in his right ankle that cut like a knife at every step. Suddenly it caught him, and he stumbled and fell. Somebody came running from the side-lines with a pail of water, but he waved the man back, Then, with a mouth tight with excruciating pain, he hobbled forward.
They lined up quickly. There was only a minute to play, Elton told himself that he must stand a moment more, just long enough to pass the ball to some runner, just—
“3—6—4.”
The signal came clear and sharp. Every syllable seemed to shoot through his ankle, tearing cords and tendons. His face was white and drawn.
The crowd was hushed. Men and women were scarcely breathing. As he dropped back to kick, Elton seemed to see a form before him, and to hear a voice saying, with a meaning too clear to mistake, “There is n’t a quitter