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“I’m not going to start you, Donovan,” said the coach, putting an arm across Larry’s shoulders. “You sit on the bench with me and I’ll send you in when you’re needed.”

Sitting quietly beside the coach, Larry looked on while Rockford took the ball and, by superior weight and superb interference, pushed it over for another touch-down just as the third quarter ended. The goal was missed, and with just fifteen short minutes left to play, the score stood Rockford 13, Sheddon nothing.

Suddenly Brock gripped Larry’s arm.

“Now’s the time. You take Shubrick’s place. Remember to report to the referee. Then, after the first play, tell Clark to run 43—with you back—that’s you, just outside tackle on the right; and then to call you back on the other side and run 44—that’s off tackle on the other side. Tell him to keep on running you as long as you can gain. You’re our only chance, boy!—and I believe you’ll pull us out of the hole!”

Larry didn’t speak; he merely grinned and dashed on the field with his fists clenched so tight that his finger-nails were white, and with his teeth set.