Dennison’s attempt to block him off was only a glancing one that
staggered him for the fraction of an instant; and the ball had no sooner
struck in Collingwood’s arms than Lawrence launched himself and hurled
the runner backwards.

“Whew! What a fierce tackle!” ejaculated a boy near Irving admiringly.

“I think Lou did well to hang on the ball,” responded his friend.

Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking in comments which that
tackle had evoked. He found himself standing behind Westby and the other
substitutes, who, wrapped in blankets, trailed up and down the field
keeping pace with the progress of their team.

“No!” Briggs, one of the substitutes, was saying. “Was that Kiddy
Upton’s brother? He’s a whirlwind, isn’t he?”

“Looked to me as if he was trying to lay Lou Collingwood out,” returned
Westby sourly.

At once Irving’s cheeks flamed hot. He put out his hand and touched
Westby’s shoulder; the boy turned, and then the blood rushed into his
cheeks too.

“Was there anything wrong about that tackle, Westby?” Irving asked.

“It just seemed to me he threw him pretty hard.”

Irving spoke to the three or four other substitutes standing by.