ing that
player's gesture. They were going to try Murdoch again. Joel heard the
breathless tones of the Yates quarter as he stooped behind the
opposing line.

"A tandem on guard," whispered Joel to himself. The next moment there
was a crash, the man in front of him gave; then Joel and Story, gripping
the turf with their toes, braced hard; there was a moment of heaving,
panting suspense; then a smothered voice cried "Down!"

"Third down," cried the referee. "Three and a half yards to gain."

"Look out for a fake kick," muttered Story, as Joel fell back. The
opposing line was quickly formed, and again the signal was given. The
rush line heaved, Joel sprang into the air, settling with a crash
against the shoulders of Chesney and Murdoch, who went forward, carrying
the defense before them. But the ball was passed, and even as the Yates
line broke the thud of leather against leather was heard. Joel
scrambled to his feet, assisted by Chesney, and streaked up the field.
The ball was overhead, describing a high, short arch. Blair was awaiting
it, and Kingdon was behind and to the right of him. Down it came, out
shot Blair's hands, and catching it like a baseball he was off at a
jump, Kingdon beside him. Joel swung about, gave a shoulder to an
oncoming blue-clad rusher, ran slowly until the two backs were hard
behind him, and then dashed on.

Surely there was no way through that crowded field. Yet even as he
studied his path a pair of blue stockings went into the air, and a
threatening obstacle was out of the way, bowled over by a Harwell
forward. The ends were now scouting ahead of the runners, engaging the
enemy. The fifty-five-yard line was traversed at an angle near the east
side of the field, and Joel saw the touch line growing instantly more
imminent. But a waiting Yates man, crouchingly running up the line, was
successfully passed, and the trio bore farther infield, putting ten more
precious yards behind them.

The west stand was wild with exultant excitement, and Joel found himself
speeding onward in time with the rhythmic sway of the deep
"Rah-rah-rah!" that boomed across from the farther side. But the enemy
was fast closing in about them. The Yates right half was plunging down
from the long side, a pertinacious forward was almost at their heels.
And now the Yates full was charging obliquely at them with his eyes
staring, his jaw set, and determination in every feature and line. The
hand on Joel's shoulder dropped