While the two were apparently suffocating under the mountain, Fred spat out a mouthful of dirt and said: "I got you that time, Jack." "It has that look, but----" Jack meant to finish his sentence, but at that moment the mountain on top sagged forward and jammed his head so deeply into the earth that his voice was too muffled to be clear.

Besides, it was not really important that the sentence should be rounded out, since other matters engaged his attention.

The two friends went through the game without a scratch, except that Jack's face was skinned along the right cheek, one eye was blackened, both legs were bruised, and half his body was black and blue, and it was hard work for him to walk for a week afterward.

The condition of Fred, and indeed of nearly every member of the two elevens, was much the same.
But what of it?
Does a football-player mind a little thing like that?
Rather is he not proud of his scars and bruises, which attest his skill and devotion to his own club?
And then Jack had the proud exultation of knowing that it was he who really won the championship for his side.

As for Fred, it is true he was disappointed over the loss of the deciding game, but it was by an exceedingly narrow margin; and he and his fellow-players, as they had their hair cut so as to make them resemble civilized beings, said, with flashing eyes and a significant shake of the head: "Wait till next year, and things will be different." Fred Greenwood was the son of a physician of large practice, whose expectation was that his son would follow the same profession, though the plans of the parents were in a somewhat hazy shape, owing to the youth of the boy.