down the side-lines, springing from
his toes.

"Why don't they take him out?" he thought angrily, with almost a
hatred of the fellow who was fighting it out in vain. "Can't they see
it? Ten yards more, oh, Lord! This ends it."

With a final rush the Andover interference swung at Banks, brushed him
aside and swept over the remaining fifteen yards for the touchdown. A
minute later the goal was kicked and the elevens again changed sides.
The suddenness with which the score had been tied impressed every
one--the school team seemed to have no defense against the well-massed
attacks of the opponents.

"Holes as big as a house," said Fatty Harris. "Asleep! They're all
asleep!"

Dink, pacing up and down, waited the word from Mr. Ware, rebelling
because it did not come.

Again the scrimmage began, a short advance from the loosely-knit
school eleven, a long punt with the wind and then a quick,
business-like line-up of the blue team and another rush at the
vulnerable end.

"Ten yards more; oh, it's giving it away!" said Fatty Harris.

Stover knelt and tried his shoelaces and rising, tightened his belt.

"I'll be out there in a moment," he said to himself.

Another gain at Banks' end and suddenly from the elevens across the
field the figure of the captain rose and waved a signal.

"Go in, Stover," said Mr. Ware.

He ran out across the long stretch to where the players were moving
restlessly, their clothes flinging out clouds of steam. Back of him
something was roaring, cheering for him, perhaps, hoping against hope.

Then he was in the midst of the contestants, Garry Cockrell's arm
about his shoulders, whispering something in his ear about keeping
cool, breaking up the interference if he couldn't get his man,
following up the play. He went to his position, noticing the sullen
expressions of his teammates, angry with the consciousness that they
were not doing their best. Then taking his stand beyond Tough McCarty,
he saw the Andover quarter and the backs turn and study him curiously.
He noticed the half-back nearest him, a stocky, close-cropped,
red-haired fellow, with brawny arms under his rolled-up jersey, whose
duty it would be to send him rolling on the first rush.

"All ready?" cried the voice of the umpire. "First down."

The whistle blew, the two lines strained opposite each other. Stover
knew what the play would be--there was no question of that.
Fortunately the last two rushes had carried the play well ove