on the side-lines were shouting in an ecstasy of relief. Edward stood after that last rush with his hands on his knees, getting his breath.
“All right, Crashaw.” It was Durant’s voice, strangely encouraging instead of sharp and critical. “All right.” And Durant clapped him on the shoulder just as Blanchard had done.
Charles Crashaw paused to survey his men and the enemy. There was Jackson, dishevelled, dirty, panting, but in the full flush of his strength; opposite him stood Edward, with his face white and drawn, betraying exhaustion and suffering. Charles looked along the line. His jocular word to Blanchard before the game had come true. He had found St. Timothy’s weak spot.
There were only a few minutes left before time would be called. Charles began to drive every play against his brother. First it would be Carter, with Charles blocking off, who would dash through the hole that Jackson opened. Then it would be Dale, the fullback. Then it would be Rose, the left tackle.
