referee, standing alertly behind the line, was signaling—no goal!
And the first quarter was over.
The cheer leaders, as if sprung from catapults, jumped into action. Shrill challenges were flung back and forth across the field from the rival camps. Down there on the grass the players of the two teams soused their hot, smeared faces into water buckets and then clustered around their respective leaders.
"Not so good, eh, Mike?" "Cupid" Williams, blessed with a bench pass, came up to the coach and said.
"I'll be lucky to have enough men to finish the game with," groaned Mike.
"Well, Crawford's holding up all right. That's something to be thankful for," said Williams.
"He ain't had nothing to do yet," gloomed Mike. "Wait till he gets scrimmaging with that glass ankle of his."
For the good of Old Tate, Harold Lamb, tense and listening, hoped that Crawford's "glass ankle" would hold out. Tichenor was gone, and the Freshman realized the gap between Crawford and quarterbacks such as Hollister, sitting there beside him looking already scared to death, and himself. Harold honestly wished Crawford would stick it out the whole game.
