Edward crouched for the play. He knew it would come at him; he felt a bitter resentment against Charles for battering him in this way, driving every play at him, humiliating him so. Why could n’t he go at some one else for a change? It was n’t fair, it—
He charged with all his might, and with head down tackled some one who was plunging past Jackson. They fell hard, and Edward hugged his man with his last desperate strength; this time at least he had done his duty, this time they had made no gain.
Then as the others got up, the boy whom he was clasping said in a mufded voice, half-appealing, half-humorous, “It’s only me, Ned.” And Edward saw that it was his brother Charles whom he had tackled, and that Charles did not have the ball. Rose had carried it through to the five-yard line, and all St. John’s were leaping and waving blue flags and shouting.
Charles rose and looked at his brother with a smile more wistful than triumphant. He glanced at the other St. Timothy’s players;