he was only killing time, determined to keep the ball in
her possession and guard her goal until the whistle blew. And she would
have done it, too, had not Forrest lost his temper. That blow on the
nose hurt and he set out to make life as unpleasant as possible for his
adversary. He didn't slug once, but he pushed and hauled and upset Jones
until that gentleman was thoroughly exasperated. Over and over he
appealed to the officials to watch Forrest.

"He's interfering with the ball," he declared.

But the officials couldn't see it that way. And finally, when the ball
had been worked back to the center of the field and the word had gone
around that there was only five minutes of time left, Forrest spoiled a
snap-back, the ball trickled from Pool's hands and Forrest plunged
through and fell upon it.

Roy raced in, crying signals as he came. Time was called while the
Hammond center and the Hammond captain made vain appeals to have the
ball returned to them, claiming interference with the snapper-back. But,
as before, they were denied and the two teams lined up again, this time
with the ball in Forrest's hands.

"_7-6-43-89!_" called Roy, and Whitcomb, with the pigskin snuggled in
his elbow, was racing around left end. All of eight yards gained, and
the crowd on the side-line went wild with delight! Flags waved and horns
shrieked, and over it all, or so Roy thought, could be heard the shrill
voice of Harry!

It was a time for risks, the coach had said. And Roy took them. Over and
over he attempted hazardous plays that ought not to have succeeded, but
that did, partly, perhaps, because of their very improbability! Twice
more Whitcomb was sent outside of left end; once Pryor got through for
four yards between right tackle and guard; and once Kirby, full-back,
hurdled Jones for a good gain. It made joy in the Ferry Hill camp and
the wavers of the brown and white banners had visions of a score. But
they were not considering the fact that the timer's watch proclaimed but
two minutes left and that that official was walking out toward the teams
proclaiming the fact.

Two minutes was not time enough for Ferry Hill to rush the ball from the
forty yards down to the goal line for a score, even when the backs were
getting two, three and even four yards at a plunge. But even those who
up until the last moment had hoped that the Brown by merit or fluke
would win out could not but feel almost satisfied at the ending of the
game. For