and ugly.

It was Cloud's opportunity to redeem himself, and with only a green
full-back between him and the goal line his chances looked bright
indeed. But he was reckoning without his host. Joel started gingerly up
to meet him. The field was streaming down on Cloud's heels, but too far
away to be in the running. Ten yards distant from Joel, Cloud's right
arm stretched out to ward off a tackle, and his face grew ugly.

"Keep off!" he hissed as Joel prepared for a tackle. But Joel had no
mind for keeping off; that cut in his head was aching like everything,
and his own advice to Wills occurred to him and made him grin. Cloud
swerved sharply, but he was too heavy to be a good dodger, and with a
leap Joel was on him, tackling hard and true about the runner's hips.
Cloud struggled, made a yard, another, then came to earth with Joel's
head snugly pillowed on his shoulder. A shout arose from the crowd. The
field came up and Joel scrambled to his feet. Cloud, his face red with
chagrin and anger, leaped to his feet, and stepping toward Joel aimed a
vicious blow at his face. The latter ducked and involuntarily raised his
fist; then, ere Greer and some of the others stepped between, turned and
walked away.

"That will do, Cloud," said Remsen in sharp, incisive tones. "You may
leave."

And with a muttered word of anger Cloud strode from the field, passing
through the silent and unsympathetic throng with pale face and
black looks.

"First's ball down here," cried Greer, and play went on; but Joel had