The morning of the Nordham game dawned gray and cold and cheerless. The rain still continued and water lay in pools along the drive and walks. What the field would be like in the afternoon no one cared to predict. There was talk of canceling the game, and rumors to the effect that Andy Ryan had called on Mr. Bendix, the court of final appeal in such cases, to ask him to declare the game off, were rife about the school in the morning. It was explained that the trainer was afraid of injury to the players on such a slippery field. Perhaps had there not been such a desire to obtain revenge from Nordham for last year’s defeat the contest might have been canceled. But it wasn’t. There was a conference at eleven o’clock, attended by Mr. Payson, Mr. Bendix, Captain Merriwell, Manager Davis and Andy Ryan, and during its progress the school at large held its breath in painful suspense. When the result of the conference was announced there was both relief and joy. In spite of Andy’s advice, the game was to take place, the only alteration of original plans consisting of a shortening of the playing periods from fifteen minutes to twelve.

Yardley flocked to the field at two o’clock clad in raincoats and rubber hats. The attendance from outside the school was naturally small, although perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred townsfolk came up to pick their way across the soggy grass under bobbing umbrellas and view the game from the water-soaked seats. Nordham sent over some twenty or thirty devoted supporters, who managed to make a large amount of noise considering their number. Two First Class fellows, detailed by Gerald on request of Mr. Manager Davis, stood at the entrance and watched for the appearance of inquisitive Broadwood gentlemen. None sought admission, however, which was fortunate, since the guards would have been powerless to exclude them. Practice was cut short to-day, and after one or two dashes about the field and a few kicks of the wet ball the two teams retired to their respective sides and the captains met to decide the choice of goals. It was raining steadily, but not so hard as during the forenoon, and optimistic ones predicted that the weather would clear before the game was finished. The field was soft and slippery, and here and there held shallow pools of water. In the stand, Gerald, seated between Harry and The Duke, was retelling an old joke called to mind by the condition of the field.

“You fellows may have heard it,” he said. “It’s rather a classic.”

“Cut out the apologies,” begged The Duke. “They’re going to start in a minute.”

“Well, once when Pennsylvania and Princeton used to play football together——”

“That must have been in the dark ages,” murmured Harry.

“—there was a Thanksgiving Day game in Philadelphia. It had snowed during the night and when it came time to start the game it was raining, and the field was covered with slush two or three inches deep. The Princeton captain won the toss. ‘Do we have to play in this fluid?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Of course you do,’ they told him impatiently. ‘Come on, now; you won the toss; which end do you want?’ The Princeton man looked around over the waste of gray slush and shook his head. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I guess we’ll kick with the tide.’”

“That’s what we’re going to do,” laughed Harry. “We’ve won the toss.”

Nordham was spreading out over her end of the field and Fales was trying to make a tee with the soft mud. “I wonder,” said Gerald, “if he wouldn’t like Kirk to drive off for him.” The whistle blew, Fales stepped forward and the ball took flight. Nordham at once tested the field, trying to get a back away around Adler’s end, but the attempt was a failure. There was no such thing as quick starting to-day, and the runner was tackled before he had reached his own line. Nordham kicked then and the ball went to mid-field. Marion tried the center of the Nordham line and netted two yards, Crandall slid off right tackle for two more and Simms kicked. A red-stockinged Nordhamite caught the pigskin near his twenty yards and dodged back to the thirty-five before he was downed. Then came a forward pass that failed, followed by two attempts at the right of the Yardley breastworks. The Red missed her distance by a scant half-foot, and Yardley took the ball away. Kendall secured three yards outside left tackle on a double pass, and made three more through left guard. Simms ran back and passed to Cousins, who was tackled where he caught. It was first down again. Crandall and Kendall, alternating, worked the tackles for gains until the ball was on the Reds’ twenty-six-yard line. There Simms fumbled the slippery ball and a Nordham forward fell on it.

Nordham kicked on first down, getting off a fine long punt that went over Simms’ head far down the field. The Nordham ends were on him by the time he had secured the ball and Simms went down in the mud. An exchange of punts secured five yards for Yardley and then Marion banged through for twelve and laid the oval on the fifty-yard line. Another attempt, however, failed of gain and Kendall fell back to punt. Girard made a wretched pass and Kendall had to fall on the ball to save it. With twenty-three yards to gain Simms sent Kendall back again as if to kick and himself took the ball through the Nordham center for ten yards and would have got away for the necessary distance had he not slipped and fallen. Nordham tried a forward pass that netted fifteen yards and then worked a delayed pass for five more, the entire Yardley team being fooled on the play. The whistle blew with the ball in Nordham’s possession on Yardley’s twenty-five yards.

So far neither team had shown much strength in attack and neither had reached scoring distance of the opponent’s goal. In weight Nordham was perceptibly lighter than Yardley, while her better speed was handicapped by the slippery field.

In the second period Nordham ripped open the Blue line on two tries for a first down, bringing the ball to the twenty yards. An end run was spoiled and a fake kick with an attack on the center of the line netted but two yards. Then Nordham’s full-back retired to the thirty-five yards and the quarter knelt in front of him. The ball was almost in front of the goal and it looked as though a score was to follow. But the Blue forwards smashed through in time to spoil the place-kick, the ball thumping against Girard’s upstretched arm and bounding away toward the side of the field, where it was secured by Kendall.

From her twenty-eight yards the Blue began a series of plays directed at the tackles that soon worked the ball past the middle of the field. Stark, right tackle, was drawn back frequently, and Marion and the two half-backs had their turns. The Red team was weakening, it seemed, her secondary defense especially making poor work of stopping the advance. On the stand the Yardley supporters were shouting lustily for a touchdown, and it looked as though the Blue was well started on a triumphant journey. With some three or four minutes of the half remaining, and the Red line allowing gains at every attack, it seemed that Yardley might well cross that last white line. But near the thirty-five yards there was a mix-up on signals and Crandall was thrown for a loss. Simms raged and stormed and Kendall took the ball for a wide end run. Across the field he raced, protected by fair interference, watching for a chance to turn in, and finally, just when it seemed that his chance had come and he had a clear field between him and the opposing quarter-back, an intrusive Nordham man dodged by the interference and made a flying tackle that fairly lifted Kendall off his feet and hurled him to earth.

Away bounded the pigskin. A Nordham player, foiled a moment before, was in the path of the ball. Those who saw the incident declared that the red-stockinged chap hardly had to stretch out his hands, that the ball actually bounced into his arms! In any case, having got it, he knew what to do. Off he went on a wild effort to cover the seventy-odd yards between him and Yardley’s goal. Behind him the Yardley players, aghast at the sudden turn of fortune, trailed in desperate pursuit. Fayette led the pack, and for a time it seemed that he might reach the runner before the last white streak was crossed. But twenty yards from the goal Fayette gave out and was passed by Plant who, in turn, for a moment raised Yardley hopes. But Plant was heavy, and the streak down the field told on him before he could reach the Nordham runner, and the latter staggered over the line, reeled behind a post and fell on top of the ball in the very middle of the goal, subsequently turning calmly over on his back and losing all interest in events for a minute.

The tackle that had dislodged the ball from Kendall’s grasp had been a terrific one, and even the most disappointed spectator grudgingly acknowledged that to have clung to a wet pigskin after such collision with the ground would have been almost impossible. Breathless and dazed, with his left arm filled with tearing pains, Kendall climbed to his feet in time to see the Nordham runner settle into his stride. Doggedly Kendall joined the pursuit, but a dozen steps was all he could manage. Having by then reached a nice pool of water he sank down into it, clasped his left wrist with the other hand and came so near fainting that it almost turned him sick. For a moment no one noticed his collapse. Then Pete Girard went to his assistance, somewhere a whistle blew, and Andy Ryan, the water pail slopping beside him, raced on. A big wet sponge was swashed over Kendall’s face and he opened his eyes. Girard, kneeling across his thighs, was pumping his arms, and at every moment the left one hurt excruciatingly. Kendall tried his best to keep his lips tight, but in spite of him a moan got by, and Andy’s eyes flashed hither and thither and his cunning fingers began a quick search over the boy’s ribs.

“Where does it get you?” demanded Andy.

Kendall shook his head. Merriwell and some others had come up, and Kendall could hear their hoarse breathing.

“Can you stand up?” demanded Andy suspiciously.

Kendall doubted it, but he nodded. “I—I’m—all right,” he whispered. Girard and another lifted him, and again Kendall winced. Andy, watching, pounced upon him again.

“Hold up, boys,” he said quietly. “Something’s wrong.” He felt of Kendall’s collarbone, working clever fingers like lightning along the back of his neck. “Hurt?” he asked. Kendall shook his head. Andy’s fingers slid down along the left arm, his little green eyes watching Kendall’s face sharply. The boy held his breath and gritted his teeth. The awful fingers reached the wrist, closed——

Kendall felt the blood ebbing away from his face, already pale, but he returned the trainer’s gaze unflinchingly. Andy’s fingers stopped kneading, lingered inquiringly at the wrist. Then his eyes left Kendall’s and Kendall, following the trainer’s gaze, saw a white lump on the back of his hand.

Andy grunted. “Come off,” he said.

“It’s nothing, Andy, really!” pleaded Kendall. “I—I don’t even feel it!”

For answer Andy laid a compelling hand on his shoulder. “Sure, I know. ’Tis rather pleasant than otherwise, maybe. But just the same you’ll come along with me, Burtis, me boy!”

Payson awaited them on the side-line. “Dislocated wrist,” announced Andy.

“Sorry, Burtis. Fayette! Fayette! Right half, and hurry up!”

“I may go in again, mayn’t I, Andy?” begged Kendall as he lowered himself to the bench.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Hold your arm out. One o’ you boys put your arms around his chest. That’s it. Hold steady now.” Slowly Andy pulled at the hand and pressed against the white lump. There was a squirmish, gritting sort of jar as the bone fell into place again. “All right. Hold it so a minute.” Andy reached into his bag for splints and bandage just as a shout of satisfaction traveled across the field. Kendall, glancing quickly toward the Yardley goal, saw the pigskin dropping to earth beyond the farther upright. Nordham had failed at goal!

With quick hands Andy wound the bandage. The shooting pains had already gone, but there was a dull, throbbing ache at the wrist, and Kendall viewed the white-swathed member scowlingly. “I wonder——” he began.

“What?” asked Andy as he tied the knot.

“I wonder if I hurt that before I dropped the ball, Andy.”

“Sure you did! You likely got it doubled under you when you went down.”

“Did I? That’s not so bad, then, is it? I mean there might be more excuse for fumbling, mightn’t there?”

“No man on earth would have held the ball after getting that,” responded the trainer, nodding at the hand. “Don’t bother your head about it, son.” He fashioned a sling of a broad strip of gauze and placed the arm in it so that the fingers lay over Kendall’s right chest. “Keep it so. We’ll have the doctor see it later. Time’s up! Get the blankets ready, boys!”