d sections. It was next to that of Davies'. "Wonder
if he thinks they'll pay any attention to him now?"

Davies felt like making some hot retort to this, but he didn't. He
decided to salve his feelings in a cigar and to escape the agony of
watching Old Eli crush the Crimson under the added weight of a
touchdown. As Davies lighted up, the lowering clouds spread wide
apart, letting down sheets of driving rain.

"A good thing it's almost over," he told himself. "About time for one
more play. Well, I don't suppose we could have expected anything
different, with the odds against us, and the weather, but if Broadhurst
had only----"

Settling back in his seat, Davies was gloomily conscious of the hosts
of Yale rising to their feet with a stupendous din. His view was
blotted from the gridiron by flashing arms and wildly lurching forms.
But Davies was no longer interested. There was no use, he thought, in
getting excited over a Yale touchdown.

While all was confusion about him, Davies sat still, puffing on his
cigar.

But the cheering kept up! There was a different note in it now, a
great, heart-rending groan that was drowned out by an ear-bursting,
joyous roar.

Davies looked up wonderingly. "Say, what's happening?"

Just how Davies got to a standing position on his seat he never knew.
But he was suddenly and overwhelmingly conscious of a most unusual
sight. Crossing the Harvard thirty-yard line, running toward the
distant Yale goal with head down, straight into the driving rain, was
the slim-lined figure of the Harvard quarterback--the ball tucked under
his right arm.

Behind the speeding man with the ball, trailed three desperate Yale
players, while another was cutting across the gridiron in the hope of
intercepting the Crimson runner from in front. Back near the Harvard
goal line, teammates on both sides, now completely out of play, yelled
encouragement to pursuers and the one pursued.

Davies, eyes glued on Broadhurst, jabbed out an arm and grabbed the
Yale supporter by the shoulder. "Yea! How'd we get the ball?" the
hero of twenty years before demanded.

"Let go my collar bone!" The Yale fan winced, trying to jerk away.

"All right; but how'd we get the ball?" persisted Davies.

"Nixon fumbled on your goal line. What's the matter, you poor fish!
Why don't you watch the game?"

Davies _was_ watching it now for dear life. The slender Harvard
quarterback was being pressed from front and back