ting opposite the line of play, moving as it moved,
coldly critical, studied each individuality.

"Funny nervous little tricks that Goodhue's got--blows on his
hands--does that mean he takes the ball? No, all a bluff. What's he do
when he does take it? Quiet and looks at the ground. When he doesn't
take it he tries to pretend he does. I'll tuck that away. He's my man.
Seems to switch in just as the interference strikes the end about ten
feet beyond tackle, running low--Banks is playing too high; better,
perhaps, to run in on 'em now and then before they get started.
There's going to be trouble there in a minute. The fellows aren't up
on their toes yet--what is the matter, anyhow? Tough's getting boxed
right along, he ought to play out further, I should think. Hello, some
one fumbled again. Who's got it? Looks like Garry. No, they recovered
it themselves--no, they didn't. Lord, what a butter-fingered lot--why
doesn't he get it? He has--Charlie DeSoto--clear field--can he make
it?--he ought to--where's that Goodhue?--looks like a safe lead; he'll
make the twenty-yard line at least--yes, fully that, if he doesn't
stumble--there's that Goodhue now--some one ought to block him off,
good work--that's it--that makes the touchdown--lucky--very lucky!"

Some one hit him a terrific clap on the shoulder. He looked up in
surprise to behold Fatty Harris dancing about like a crazed man. The
air seemed all arms, hats were rising like startled coveys of birds.
Some one flung his arms around him and hugged him. He flung him off
almost indignantly. What were they thinking of--that was only one
touchdown--four points--what was that against that blue team and the
wind at their backs, too. One touchdown wasn't going to win the game.

"Why do they get so excited?" said Dink Stover to John Stover,
watching deliberately the ball soaring between the goalposts; "6 to
0--they think it's all over. Now's the rub."

Mr. Ware passed near him. He was quiet, too, seeing far ahead.

"Better keep warmed up, Stover," he said.

"Biting his nails, that's a funny trick for a master," thought Dink.
"He oughtn't to be nervous. That doesn't do any good."

The shouts of exultation were soon hushed; with the advantage of the
wind the game quickly assumed a different complexion. Andover had
found the weak end and sent play after play at Banks, driving him back
for long advances.

"Take off your sweater," said Mr. Ware.

Dink flung it off, running up and