“Hold ’em, Brimfield! Hold ’em! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” chanted the

grand-stand
“Hold ’em, Brimfield! Hold ’em! Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” chanted the
grand-stand. Clint was scowling ferociously and gripping his hands hard
between his knees. Amy was patting his feet on the boards. Chase was
studying the situation intently, outwardly quite unaffected by the
crisis. “Someone,” he observed, “is making a mistake there. They’ll
never get six yards by plugging the line. Why don’t they make Brimfield
open out?”