Nordham had made three changes, one in her line and two in her back-field. With only twelve minutes left to play she was hoping to stave off a Yardley score and when, on the second play, Brinspool dropped the ball and she recovered it on her forty-yard line, she kicked on first down and sent the pigskin twenty yards into the Blue’s territory. Undismayed, Yardley took up the journey again. Nordham put all her skill into defensive playing, and twice Yardley made her distance on the third down only by inches. Then the middle line was crossed. Crandall swung far around right end for a seven-yard gain, and Brinspool banged his way through right guard for two more. Plant was drawn back and made four yards off left tackle. Then Simms concentrated the attack on the left of the Nordham line and found a weak place at guard. But the Red’s secondary defense played fiercely and stopped the runners almost as soon as they were through. Brinspool had found his pace, however, and went through time and again for two- and three-yard gains. Twice play was stopped while the distance was measured, but each time the Blue had an inch or two to spare. Then the thirty-yard line was reached and Kendall, who all this time had never once been given the ball and had done no more than interfere for the runner, observed Simms anxiously. But that youth was not ready to try a field-goal yet. Plant and Brinspool hammered the left guard and slid off the left tackle, Crandall made a slight gain on an end run, and the twenty-yard line was under foot. But then Nordham, desperate, made a stand. Crandall sliced through between right guard and tackle for two yards and Brinspool made four straight through center. But with four to go on the third down the prospect didn’t look encouraging. Merriwell whispered to Simms and Simms nodded.

“Kick formation! Burtis back! Hold that line, fellows!”

Kendall trotted back to the thirty yards and the defense for the kicker grouped in front. Whether he could catch the pass Kendall didn’t know. That splinted hand seemed terribly awkward to him. But when the ball came back, breast high, his hands closed upon it automatically, and he stepped forward, dropped it, swung and sent it high and straight over the bar!

A burst of cheering swept across the field, and Crandall was patting him on the back. “One more like that, Kendall, and we’ll have ’em tied!” he shouted.

Seven minutes remained as Nordham brought out the ball and lined up for a scrimmage. Two tries netted her six yards, and then again she punted. This time the ball went out at the fifty-five-yard line, and there was no chance to run it back. Yardley started again toward the Red’s goal with an end run by Simms that tore off twelve yards. Then Crandall, taking the ball on a delayed pass, swung around the left end of the Red’s line and secured nearly fifteen yards before he was brought down from behind. In the tackle his knee was badly wrenched and, although he got into the next play, his usefulness for that day was at an end and Greene took his place. Payson also seized the opportunity to relieve Girard and Captain Merriwell, Best and McKesson going in. Plant plowed through for four and Greene made three. Kendall, by this time forgetting his injured hand, was in every play, and it was after Brinspool had staggered around right tackle for enough to make the distance, with Kendall putting out the opposing end, that the latter had cause to remember that left wrist. Brinspool, following him closely, lurched against him as he staggered by, and the full weight of the big fellow came against that injured arm. For an instant Kendall wanted to crumple up on the soggy turf and forget everything. But he didn’t, and the pain soon passed.

A fumble by Greene on the next play set them back five yards, Kendall falling on the ball in a puddle just ahead of a frantic Nordham tackle. Brinspool failed to gain at center, Plant got four yards through the right side, and, with six to gain, Kendall punted. By this time the ball was soaked through to the rubber and was pretty “dead,” and the punt carried only thirty yards. The result was that the Nordham quarter had to run forward for it, and just as he reached it the treacherous ground took a hand in affairs. The pigskin went through his arms as he recovered his stride, bounded along the wet turf, throwing a spray behind it, and then rolled toward the side-line. Adler, who had been put out of the running by a Nordham back, had got to his feet again and was coming down fast. The other Yardley end, Cousins, had overrun. Adler, without easing his pace, swung sharply toward the right, slipped, recovered himself and dived a good ten feet for the ball just as a Nordham half-back raced by. The two came together and the water spouted as they rolled in the mud. But Adler had the ball, and it was down on Nordham’s twenty-eight yards, and the Yardley supporters, who had by this time abandoned the stand and were clustered deep along the rope, set up a triumphant frenzied shout.

“Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!” they clamored.

Holmes raced on with waving hand. “Quarter, sir!” he called. “You’re off, Simms!”

“Oh, get out of here!” snapped Simms.

“Payson’s orders,” answered Holmes.

“You’re delaying the game, Yardley,” came the warning. Simms looked at Holmes indecisively. Then his head went down and he walked away.

“Now then, fellows,” called Holmes. “Get into it! You’re not playing! Brace up, Stark, brace up! Let’s put this over in six plays, fellows!”

Brinspool got a yard and a half through center and Greene followed with four yards past left tackle. Holmes darted through right guard for the distance, squirming and fighting.

“First down!” The referee waved his arm to the linesmen.

“Line up quick!” roared Holmes. “Over with it! Let’s try their left, fellows!”

And Holmes actually sent Greene against the left wing, but gained less than a yard. Brinspool tried the other side and got past for four.

“Kick formation! Burtis back! Hold hard now!”

But the ball went to Holmes and he passed to Brinspool, and the big full-back charged into the line like a steam engine and went through with half the Nordham team hanging about him. There was an anxious moment while the ball was hunted, but when it came to light it lay a good two feet beyond the tenth yard. Only nine yards away was the goal line. Across the trampled field the Yardley supporters were shouting incessantly. Holmes raised an imploring hand and comparative quiet fell. The Nordham captain was begging and scolding up and down his line:

“Now stop ’em, men! Don’t give ’em another foot! Throw ’em back! Into it hard and watch the ball!”

Holmes barked his signals. Kendall dashed at the guard-tackle hole on the left, Brinspool followed him, Greene darted across, took the ball at a hand-pass and, followed by Holmes, squirmed between guard and tackle on the other side for two yards. Seven yards to go!

“Kick formation! Burtis back! Now hold them, fellows!”

“Block this kick!” shouted the Nordham captain.

Holmes shouted his signals.

“Fake!” yelled the Red’s captain. “Watch it! Watch it!”

And a fake it was, the pigskin going to Plant, who had dropped back of the line. The tackle swung to the left and darted at the opposite tackle. But Nordham was there, and he went down as though he had run against a wall.

“Get up! Get up!”

“That’s the way to hold ’em! We’ve got ’em now! They don’t dare to kick!”

“Third down! Six to go!”

“Line up, fellows! You’ve got to put it over! Get down there, Best! Kick formation! Burtis——”

But Holmes paused, for Kendall was whispering to him.

“A field goal will only tie it, Holmes,” said Kendall eagerly. “They’re looking for a kick. Let me try a run around the left end. Their ends are away in. I can do it! Fake a kick, Holmes, and let me try it!”

For an instant Holmes hesitated. Then, with a flash in his eyes, “All right! But I’ll get the dickens if we lose the ball, Burtis. You’ve got to make it go, remember!”

“I will,” answered Kendall grimly.

“Kick formation! Burtis back! Do your best, fellows! Remember last year!” Then came the signals and Kendall saw the sudden look of surprise in Greene’s face as he shifted a few inches nearer the play. Cousins edged out a step, the opposing end eyeing him doubtfully. Then Best shot the ball back and Kendall, standing near the twenty-yard line, caught it. Snuggling it close in his injured elbow, he darted to the left. Then the field was in movement, the two teams racing between him and the goal. Luckily the Yardley line had held firmly, and in the second between his catching of the ball and the discovery of the play by the opponents Kendall had gained three good strides. The interference formed a moving wall between him and the pursuit as he pounded across the slippery turf. The only thing he feared was to miss his footing.

“In! In!” shrieked Holmes, sending a Nordham man sprawling, and Kendall, swinging to the right, made for the goal-line. A red-sleeved figure sprang in front of him, and Kendall’s right arm went out, there was a shock and the red sleeves slipped from view. One more white line passed under his feet. The air was filled with shouts. One of his own men stumbled into his path and went down. Kendall sprang over him, slipped, found his stride again, and looked into the wild, wide eyes of the Nordham quarter. Out went the straight arm again, but the quarter darted aside and sprang. His hands clutched at Kendall’s hips as the latter pivoted. The quarter’s hands slid from the slippery, rain-soaked canvas and closed like a vise about one leg. Kendall, gasping for breath, struggled on, that dead weight sliding behind him. He had lost all sense of location and had no idea how near to the goal-line he was. His only thought was to go on and on, somehow, as long as they would let him. Then a long red arm shot across his chest, a body banged against him, and he fell to one knee, clutching the ball desperately with both hands. He struggled to rise again, felt himself being pulled backward, resisted to the limit of his strength, and finally squirmed forward, burying his face in the cold, wet grass just as the whistle shrilled.

Someone pulled him over onto his back and wrested the ball away from him. For a moment, with closed eyes, he fought for breath. Then, conscious of a numbing pain in one arm and of a sound that beat upon his ears like breakers on a beach, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a shock of red hair, then something brown and dripping, and, when the sponge was gone, leaving him gasping and half-blinded, a white-painted post so near that he could have stretched out his arm and touched it. Slowly his gaze traveled up the post until it found a bar set at right angles with it. He smiled satisfiedly. “It’s—over, isn’t it?” he asked weakly.

“A yard over,” answered Andy’s voice. “And now you’ll come off.”

“No, I must kick the goal,” Kendall demurred.

“Here, boys, get him out of this,” was Andy’s reply, and Kendall found himself being lifted to his feet.

“All right,” he muttered. “I can walk. Let me go, you fellows.”

But when they let him go he staggered and reeled and Andy had to hold him up. After that he went off to the bench quite docilely between two substitutes, regarding the faces that forever got in his way, faces with blazing eyes and wide-open mouths, through a haze of perplexity. Somehow, there was a great deal of noise going on!

Presently, blanketed, his arm once more in a sling, he was leaning back against the stand, quite satisfied with the world. From where he sat, quite alone save for Andy, he could see only the backs of the crowd, a crowd gone suddenly silent. He knew then that someone, probably Fales, was preparing to try a goal, and would have got up and gone to see had not Andy pushed him gently back into his seat.

“Be easy, can’t you?” he grumbled. “How do you think that wrist is going to get well if you don’t take care of it? If I’d had my way you’d never gone back there to-day. It’s a wonder you didn’t snap it out again.”

“All right, Andy,” replied Kendall happily. “I just wanted to see if we’d get the goal.”

“No matter if we do or we don’t,” said Andy, snapping his bag shut. “We beat ’em anyway, don’t we?”

“Yes, but—but what is the score?”

“Nine to six, and that’s good enough. How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m all right, feeling fine. Nine to——”

“No goal!” someone cried, and “No goal!” ran the verdict as the throng broke up to follow the ball back to the center of the field.

“Who kicked?” asked Kendall, as Jensen, substitute tackle, came by trailing his blanket in the mud.

“Fales. Missed it by only a foot, I guess. That was a great run, Burtis.”

“Can you walk all right?” asked Andy. Kendall got to his feet and tried it, finding that the dizziness was gone. “Then go on up before the crowd starts,” directed the trainer. “Get your duds off and take a hot tub. I’ll look after you when I come up.”

“Couldn’t I see the rest of the game?” begged Kendall.

“You could not,” answered Andy shortly. “Do as I tell you to do for once. First thing you know them howling hyenas will be wanting to lug you around on their shoulders and you’ll get hurt again. Off with you now. Go slow, but keep going!”

“All right. Will you find my sweater for me?”

“I will. Get out!”

So Kendall, feeling rather as though he had had a skyscraper fall on him and had been kicked by a mule, trudged out and up the path to the gymnasium, the clamor of shouts and cheers and the piping of the whistle lessening as he went. Halfway to the gymnasium, warned by a sudden burst of triumphant cheering, he turned and looked back. They were diving under the ropes and flooding onto the field. The game was over. Kendall, smiling blissfully, hurried on.