Rupert laughed. "See anybody as good as Philip Ward?" he asked teasingly.
"Oh, about eleven. Fourth down! Neither side seems to gain much by rushing with the ball"
"Durham's going to kick again," Rupert predicted, and they both looked up the field in silent anxiety. The next moment there was a shout from St. John's, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of chagrin.
"Threw Windsor back a yard. Holder let his man through like a shot!" he muttered. "Now if we are n't able to gain, and have to kick"—
He said it all so moodily, resting his chin on his hand, that the older boy, glancing at him, smiled. A moment later, with St. Timothy's shouting, Rupert's face cleared. Windsor had made a twenty-yard rush through the centre.
"That puts us out of danger—temporarily," Rupert said. "But I'm afraid that Holder will make more such mistakes."
"Is he the best you've got? Who's his substitute?"
