ith the shadow of the
goalposts looming at their backs. Waladoo and Turkey Reiter were
fighting side by side, calling to each other. Tough McCarty was
hauling Stover out of desperate scrimmages, patting him on the back
and calling him "good old Dink." The fighting blood that Garry
Cockrell had called upon was at last there--the line had closed and
fought together.

And yet they were borne back to their fifteen-yard line, two yards at
a time, just losing the fourth down.

Stover at end was trembling like a blooded terrier, on edge for each
play, shrieking:

"Oh, Tough, get through--you must get through!"

He was playing by intuition now, no time to plan. He knew just who had
the ball and where it was going. Out or in, the attack was
concentrating on his end--only McCarty and he could stop it. He was
getting his man, but they were dragging him on, fighting now for
inches.

"Third down, one yard to gain!"

"Watch my end," he shouted to Flash Condit, and hurling himself
forward at the starting backs dove under the knees, and grabbing the
legs about him went down buried under the mass he had upset.

It seemed hours before the crushing bodies were pulled off and some
one's arm brought him to his feet and some one hugged him, shouting in
his ear:

"You saved it, Dink, you saved it!"

Some one rushed up with a sponge and began dabbing his face.

"What the deuce are they doing that for?" he said angrily.

Then he noticed that an arm was under his and he turned curiously to
the face near him. It was Tough McCarty's.

"Whose ball is it?" he said.

"Ours."

He looked to the other side. Garry Cockrell was supporting him.

"What's the matter?" he said, trying to draw his head away from the
sponge that was dripping water down his throat.

"Just a little wind knocked out, youngster--coming to?"

"I'm all right."

He walked a few steps alone and then took his place. Things were in a
daze on the horizon, but not there in the field. Everything else was
shut out except his duty there.

Charlie DeSoto's voice rose shrill:

"Now, Lawrenceville, up the field with it. This team's just begun to
play. We've got together, boys. Let her rip!"

No longer scattered, but a unit, all differences forgot, fighting for
the same idea, the team rose up and crashed through the Andover line,
every man in the play, ten--fifteen yards ahead.

"Again!" came the strident cry.

Without a pause the line sprang into place, formed and