The blue-clad players were walking disconsolately back to the other end of the gridiron. The ball had passed under the bar instead of over; Kendall had missed goal by a foot only, but missed it he had. Murmurs of disappointment traveled along the west side of the field. For a minute the blue flags trailed discouragedly. But the teams were at it again, and there was still a good four minutes left of the quarter. Yardley advanced and lost the ball on a fumble. Broadwood made one first down and was forced to kick. Greene made a startling run after the catch, getting twenty-odd yards before he was stopped. Marion made two desperate plunges at left tackle and slid by each time for a short gain, and Kendall made the rest of the distance through right guard. Then came a penalty for off-side playing, and Kendall punted on the second down. Saunders caught and was downed, and the whistle blew for the third period. And there was still no score.

Payson sent Crandall back when the last quarter began, and made two other changes. Holmes took Simms’s place, and Brinspool went in for Marion. Fifteen minutes remained in which to conquer or lose, and as the two teams, each showing the effects of the struggle, faced each other again on Broadwood’s thirty-eight yards it was still anybody’s game.

Broadwood secured six yards on two plays, and then Reid, starting as if to round Yardley’s right end, suddenly stopped, turned and aimed a well-directed pass at the red-haired left end. The latter was quite alone and made a good catch, and in an instant he was streaking down the field. Only Holmes was between him and a touchdown, and Holmes was well over on the further side of the gridiron. Ten yards, fifteen yards, and the green-jerseyed youth was still running. Past the center of the field he sped, Holmes closing in on him cautiously, the rest of the enemy trailing along desperately in the rear. On Yardley’s forty-five yards the runner swung to the right as though to pass inside of Holmes, but the latter was wary and refused to follow. Another ten yards and the two met. The runner dodged to the left as Holmes dived, but the quarter’s tackle was sure, and after three struggling paces the Broadwood runner came to earth. Thirty-five yards he had reeled off, the ball was on Yardley’s twenty-seven and Broadwood cheered frantically. It was now or never for the Green, and all seemed to realize it. Yardley was for the moment disorganized, and her defense crumbled. The Green swept through for eight yards on the first play, gained her distance on the next and stood victoriously on the Yardley sixteen-yard line. A conference followed. Evidently Saunders was for trying a field goal, while Captain Raynor wanted a touchdown. Broadwood went back to her line-plunging. Holmes and Merriwell pleaded and threatened, and the Yardley line braced. Two yards was all Broadwood gained on her first attack, a yard and a half on her second. There seemed nothing for it then but a try at goal. Reid paced back and took kicking position. Saunders fell to his knees behind center. “Hold ’em now! Hold ’em! Get down, Smith! Stop that man, Peebles!” cried Saunders.

“Break through, fellows!” implored Holmes hoarsely. “Block this kick! Block it!”

Back went the ball, but not to Saunders. That youth flattened himself out of the way, and Reid was running to his right. A cry of warning broke from Holmes.

“Watch a pass! Watch a pass!”

But too late! Adler had been drawn in, and far to the right of the Yardley end the red-haired youth stood poised for the pass! Frantically a half-dozen Yardley players strove to reach Reid before he could throw. But already he had stopped, turned and was taking aim. Then away shot the ball, arching gently across the field to the waiting Broadwood end. Adler and Kendall rushed down upon him, but the ball descended into his hands on the five-yard line and he was away on the instant. Three strides and he was over the last lime mark and heading in toward goal. Simms pulled him down before he had centered the ball, but the damage was done. Broadwood had scored! On the blackboard at the end of the field appeared an ominous white figure 6!

The punt-out was caught but Saunders failed to kick the goal, and Yardley took what comfort it might from that. Eleven minutes of playing time still remained, and the Blue’s supporters refused to give up hope. Yardley had only to score a touchdown to tie, while a goal from the touchdown would win the game. The blue flags began to wave again half-heartedly, and the cheering started anew. The cheer leaders, their blue megaphones gyrating, did their utmost, but for a time the responses were weak. Broadwood took the defensive immediately after the kick-off and held to it. Yardley played desperately and every trick in her bundle was tried. Twice end runs were started that seemed destined to change the complexion of the game, but each time the runner was stopped before he could quite get away. From one forty-yard line to the other the play went back and forth, Broadwood punting on second down if not first and Yardley coming back with her end and tackle plays, punting only when forced to. And so nearly ten of the remaining eleven minutes passed away and Broadwood’s title to the contest grew momentarily stronger. The linesman had announced two minutes left and Yardley had just failed to gain on her second down near the Blue’s trampled forty-five-yard line. Holmes tried a quarter-back kick, and it worked, Cousins getting the ball on the Blue thirty-five yards. He was immediately tackled, however, and downed. Near at hand the blue flags were tossing ecstatically, and hundreds of throats were roaring an imploring chorus of “Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!”

It was a time for desperate measures. The seconds were ticking off fast. Holmes hurried the line together.

“Come on! Come on! Signals! 38-107-45! 38-107——”

Back went the ball, thudding against Brinspool’s stomach as he dashed forward. Merriwell and Jensen opened the hole and Brinspool staggered through, twisting, panting, the ball clutched tightly. The sound of rasping canvas, of bodies straining together, of grunts and cries, of panting breaths! A wild confusion of lunging, struggling forms, of grasping arms, of wide, anxious eyes, of white, tired faces, dirt-streaked and convulsed with effort! A faint, grumbling cry of “Down!” and the shrilling of the whistle! And Yardley had wrested four yards from the enemy!

“Line up, quick!” howled Holmes. “Get into this! We’ve got ’em going, fellows! They can’t hold us! Signals! Right tackle over! 98-16-107! 98-16——”

It was Brinspool again; he was playing to-day as he had never played before all season; it was Brinspool between his tackle and end at the right, Brinspool taking the ball at a short throw and crashing past the Broadwood tackle for another three yards! Then the whistle again, and Merriwell, staggering out toward the side-line, asking the time, and Holmes begging him to come back and never mind.

“We’ve time to put it over,” he cried. “Line up, fellows!”

“Forty seconds!” called the linesman.

Holmes faltered and passed a hand over his face. Broadwood, jubilant, broke into exultant cries. “Hold them, Broadwood! It’s their last play! Stop this! Throw them back! Get under ’em!”

“Signals!” growled Holmes. “Kick formation! Burtis back!” He turned and viewed the positions. Greene and Brinspool were crouched already at the right, and Kendall, white-faced but steady, was raising his hands. “Get this, Burtis, and make it good, boy! Signals! 17-11-21!”

“Signals! Signals!” shrieked Greene, as Kendall’s heart leaped. Holmes darted a look of murder at the offending Greene.

“Signals!” he cried again, chopping out the numbers with hoarse barks. “17-89-31! 17-89——”

“Block this kick! Block it!” shrieked Broadwood.

Back swept the ball from between Best’s wide-set feet, back to Kendall at head-height. Up went his hands, out swung a leg and then, with the ball tucked in the crook of his left elbow, he was plunging across the field to his left, while shrieks and cries filled the air. It was the play that had won the Nordham game, a simple run from kick formation, a play easy to stop if expected, but likely to gain if not. And in this case Broadwood had looked for a kick, reasoning that Yardley had given up all idea of trying to win by rushing, that in the few seconds remaining she would try to mitigate her defeat by securing the three points that a goal from field would yield her. And Broadwood was napping on the right of her line. The brilliant Thurston who had made himself feared all through the game, who had spoiled more than one attempt at his end of the line, had crept in and up, desperately determined to get inside of the Yardley end and spoil the kick. It was Broadwood’s right half-back, Reid, who first scented the danger and started to intercept Kendall. Saunders pounded behind him. But the Yardley interference was well formed, well spaced and desperate. Reid went down with Holmes, and Greene blocked Saunders. At that instant Kendall turned in and leaped toward the goal-line, his right elbow locked and his arm stretched out to meet the foe. Six white lines lay between him and the goal. He crossed two in safety, Greene speeding beside him. Then the enemy swept upon him. Greene threw himself in the path of a frantic foe and went down, and Kendall ran alone.

Three white streaks danced before his eyes now. A form leaped at him, all blue-clad arms, and Kendall’s open hand flattened against a face and he was still free. Two lines more now, only two! A shock almost threw him from his feet; hands were clutching at his hips; he whirled on one heel, staggered and broke away; a form dashed in front of him, hands stretching upward; Kendall leaped and went over the falling foe; the last line was under foot! One stride—another!— Many hands fell upon him, dragging him down! He tried to shake free, but they were too many for him! He fell to his knees, something crashed against him, driving the remaining breath from his body, and he toppled over on the turf, the old injury paining horribly and his lungs bursting for air.

They led him away to the side-lines, for the leather harness had failed him and the bones had slipped out again. And while the spectators held their breaths, Fales tried to kick a goal. Victory for the Blue depended on his efforts, and he knew it. Weary and panting, he directed the poising of the ball, stepped forward and kicked. The pigskin rose erratically, turned lazily over and dropped weakly to earth in front of the charging Broadwood line. And Fales sat down on the turf, rolled onto his face, buried his head in his arms and wept!

Said the scoreboard: Broadwood 6; Visitors 6.