The trial lasted two days, Friday and Monday. It was almost five o’clock on Monday when the case went to the jury.
By the next afternoon the jury was still deliberating.
“What rotten luck,” Larry said to Greg as they headed for the field to play their final game of the season, against the Moths. “I was hoping that the jury would have their verdict by this morning, anyway.”
“My parents said that sometimes a jury could be working on a case for days,” said Greg.
“That’s right,” agreed Larry, who had learned a little about law from his father.
The day was cold in spite of the sun popping out from behind white clouds now and then. The crowd was the largest that had attended any of the Digits’ games this season. Maybe the Digits’ spreading reputation as a winning team was responsible. A winning team always drew the fans. And the Digits, having won their last two games, was certainly a winning team.
“Oh, well,” thought Larry, “who cares how many fans are here? I just hope that Yancey is found not guilty. As a matter of fact, I would rather lose the game than have him be found guilty.”
During the game he felt scared each time the Moths had the ball. He wondered whether he’d ever get over the feeling when meeting a runner head-on, or throwing himself at a ball carrier, or throwing a block on a guy. “How long will I have to play before that scared feeling wears off, anyway?” he asked himself.
It wasn’t till the end of the first three minutes of the second quarter when Sammy Shantz, the Moths’ safety man, intercepted one of George Daley’s long passes and ran sixty-three yards; the first score of the game went up on the scoreboard. Franky Milo kicked for the point after and made it good. 7–0.
Two minutes later, with the ball back in the Moths’ possession on their own forty-two, Sammy Shantz’s pitchout to Earl Dimmick, his left halfback, was fumbled, and Larry was one of the first to go busting through the line in a wild scramble to recover it. He saw the ball popping like a cork out of one and then another guy’s hands, and finally saw it rolling freely across the grass turf. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Franky making a mad dash for it. At the same time Larry bolted after it, too, and got to it a fraction of a second before Franky did. He pulled it under him and lay on it, while Franky tried vainly to take it from him.
The whistle shrilled. Digits’ ball.
“Mash Forty-one,” George said in the huddle.
The play worked for twenty-eight yards. An end-around run by Doug Shaffer accounted for sixteen more. They were on the go now, with short runs, short passes. They were moving… moving…
They got to the Moths’ two, and Doug went over for the touchdown. He kicked successfully for the extra point, too. 7–7.
Minutes later the whistle announcing the end of the half came as a surprise. The time had really zipped by.
Coach Ellis’s talk during the intermission was filled. with its usual “go-get-’em-guys-you’ve-got-it-in-you” spirit. But only some of it filtered through Larry’s busy mind. He was wondering how the jury was doing on Yancey Foote’s case.
Franky Milo, after two short runs, took a pitchout from Sammy, then faded back and winged a long pass to his right end, Peter Buttrick. Peter went all the way to the Digits’ three-yard line, where George pulled him down. Then Sammy went over on a quarterback sneak for the Moths’ second touchdown. Again Franky’s kick was good. Moths 14, Digits 7.
The Moths kept pressing, forcing the Digits back against their own end zone again, and Larry wondered what the Digits fans thought of them now. The Digits certainly were not the same fighting, spirited team that had defeated the Crickets and the Finbacks. What had happened to that fighting spirit, anyway?
With fourth down and the ball on their eight-yard line, Larry thought of one of the two plays that Yancey had given him last Sunday.
“How about trying the Fake Punt, George?” he said. “This might be a good time for it.”
George looked at him. “One of those new plays? I don’t know. We could be tackled back here and give them a safety.”
“Or we could pull the biggest fake of the year,” said Larry.
“Okay, let’s try it,” said George.
The team went into a punt formation. George called signals. Larry snapped the ball.
George took the long spiraling snap from Larry, started to kneel with it, then got up and sprinted toward the right side of the line. With fine blocking from Billy, Doug, and Ray, he churned up yardage till he reached the Moths’ thirty-eight.
“We did it!” cried Larry happily.
From there the Moths slowed the Digits’ forward progress, but the Digits managed to get to the Moths’ eighteen, where they were held for three downs without gaining a yard.
“Doug, think you can boot one over?” asked George.
“Why not?” replied Doug. “I can’t miss all the time.”
He kicked, and it was good. The field goal made the score 14–10, the Moths still leading.
The score remained unchanged to the middle of the fourth quarter. The Moths had possession of the ball on the Digits’ nine when Franky dropped a pitchout. Larry, plowing through like a wild buffalo, picked up the ball, carried it for eight yards, and was dropped like a sack of potatoes.
“Nice going, Larry!” Greg exclaimed, slapping him on the back.
On two plays they gained four yards. The situation looked glum.
“Swing Pass,” said George.
The play worked for twenty-one yards.
They tried it again. It went incomplete. Again they tried it, and again it went incomplete.
Third down and ten, on their forty-two.
“How much time left?” George asked the referee.
“Fifty seconds,” answered the official.
The guys stared at each other, eyes like black holes, faces smeared with dirt and sweat.
“Four Shotgun,” said George. “And it better work.”
Larry’s heart beat fast. Four Shotgun was the other play that Yancey had given him last Sunday. It called for the quarterback to stay in his regular position behind the center, and the other backfield men to line up behind the right tackle. If it worked, Doug, taking the pitchout from George, could gain substantial yardage.
They broke out of the huddle and rushed to the scrimmage line.
“Forty-six! Thirteen! Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Larry snapped the ball. George took it, spun around to his left, then pitched the ball out to Doug as he started to run behind Billy James. The fullback bolted through the hole that yawned before him like a tunnel, legs churning like pistons as they gulped up yardage. Sammy brought him down on the Moths’ fourteen.
“Thirty-eight seconds,” informed the ref.
“Let’s try it again,” said Larry anxiously.
“Why not?” exclaimed Doug, his face glistening with sweat.
They did. This time Doug carried it to the twelve-yard line, where he was smeared.
“Twelve yards from home,” said George in the huddle. “Let’s try the keeper. Larry, Greg — everybody — I’m depending on you.”
They did the job, opening up a hole wide enough for George to barrel through. Touchdown!
Doug kicked for the extra point, and it was good. 17–14, Digits.
Seconds later the game ended, the Digits jumping and cheering with the sweet taste of victory.
As Larry sprinted past the bleachers in his eagerness to get home, he heard a voice yelling to him, “Larry, wait!”
He stopped, and stared. It was his father!
“Dad!”
Next to his father stood Yancey! Both of them were smiling! He ran to them, took their extended hands.
“Nice game, son!” exclaimed Mr. Shope. “I’m sure glad I didn’t miss this one!”
“It was a great finish, Larry,” said Yancey, his face beaming.
“I know how we came out!” Larry cried. “It’s how you came out, Yancey, that I’m anxious to know about!”
“Oh. We won, too,” Yancey said, his eyes flashing. “Your father’s one of the best doggone lawyers that has ever come down the pike. Do you know that, Larry?”
Larry’s eyes danced. “I’ve always known that, Yancey,” he said.
Mr. Shope, holding Larry’s hand, squeezed it warmly.
“From now on I’m going to see to it that that word lawyers is interchangeable with fathers” he vowed. “Shall we go? Your mother promised to cook us a big dinner — win or lose.”