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58
THE CRASHAW BROTHERS

Williams got up all right, but Blanchard lay on the ground. The team gathered round him; Durant knelt and lifted his head.

“Don’t,” said Blanchard, “I’m all right. Don’t bother.”

His face was pale and he was gritting his teeth, but he sat up. Dr. Vincent, the school physician, had hurried out on the field.

“It’s my left knee,” Blanchard said to him. “Wrenched it—but I’ll be able to go on in a moment.”

The doctor turned down the boy’s stocking.

“No more football for you to-day,” he said. “It’s out of the question.”

“Wait; I’ll show you. Give me a hand.” They helped Blanchard to his feet and he took a hobbling step. He stopped then, with a painful smile.

“I guess you’re right. Doctor; it’s no use. Durant, will you be captain?—Play hard, fellows; you can lick them.”

Durant and the doctor assisted him to the side-line, while St. John’s and St. Timothy’s alike applauded him. Carberry, his substitute,