"Eighteen---three--eleven---seven---nine!" called Tom Reade, crisply.
The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to
make, or to pretend to make. But that nine, capping all at the
end, caused a swift flutter in Gridley hearts. For that nine,
at the end of the signal, called for a fake play.
Yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every
Gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered.
Only three men on the team understood what was contemplated.
Coach Morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the
moment that he heard the signal.
Dick Prescott, eager for his chum's success, as well as the team's,
stood as erect as he could beside Mr. Morton, trying to take in
the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance.
As Tom Reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened
up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for
Gridley's right end.
Immediately, of course, Hallam rushed its men toward that point.
Yet the movements of Gridley's right wing puzzled the visitors.
For all of Dave's right flankers dashed forward, making an effective
interference.
Surely, reasoned Captain Forsythe, Tom Reade didn't mean to try
to break through by himself with the pigskin.
That much was a correct guess. Tom didn't intend anything of
the sort.
All in a flash Reade, as prearranged, dropped the ball, punting
it vigorously.
Up it went, soaring obliquely over Gridley's left flank and far
beyond.
Pages:
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83