The sun broke forth at the very instant that the Kenwood kicker’s toe sent the pigskin hurtling from the tee, and a flood of wintry sunshine illumined the scene. But a chilling wind still blew from the northeast, snapping the big brown banner above the grandstand and eddying amidst the serried ranks of the onlookers. Brown pennants flapped and blue pennants, fewer in number, waved back defiantly. On the Parkinson side of the field the substitutes sat huddled in their sweaters and blankets on the bench or lay sprawled on the windrow of marsh hay that had covered the gridiron overnight and was now piled in the lee of the barrier. Ira, cross-legged, his back to the boards, meditatively chewed at a grass blade as Wells doubled himself over the ball, dug his cleats and went swinging off to the left behind his converging teammates. Five yards, seven, and then he was down, the arms of a Kenwood end wrapped about his thighs. Dannis’ voice piped shrilly across the wind-swept field: “Line up, Parkinson! Signals!”

A moment of suspense and then the brown-shirted backs lunged at the Kenwood centre, faltered, stopped and came tumbling back.

“Nothing doing there,” muttered Brad, at Ira’s left.

Then came a try at left tackle and a short gain, with Cole carrying the ball. A third attempt was hurled back by the right of the Blue’s line, and Wirt dropped back. The ball went corkscrewing down the field, borne on a blast of the whistling wind, and the players sped under it. Here and there a man went down, rolled over, found his feet again and sped on. The Kenwood quarter signalled for a fair-catch and heeled the ball on his ten-yard line.

“Good work,” commented Brad. “They’re taking no chances with the ball floating like that. Ever try to catch in a high wind, Rowland?”

Ira shook his head.

“It’s hard. You can’t tell where the silly thing will come down until just before it gets to you. Now we’ll see what they’ve got in the way of an attack. Hello!”

Kenwood was shifting her whole left side except the end. Parkinson shuffled over to meet the attack, the ball was snapped and the quarter was running back with it, while, far off at the left, a blue-stockinged end was racing down the field with upraised arm.

“Not a soul with him!” groaned Brad. The ball went streaking across, well above the heads of the players. Cole, discerning the danger too late, was running hard and Dannis was making toward the side line. But the pass was safe and the Kenwood end plucked the ball from air, tucked it in the crook of his arm and started for the distant goal. Cole’s effort was late and only Dannis stood in the path of the runner. But Dannis got him and they went rolling together over and over into the hay, while the Kenwood substitutes scattered right and left.

“Twenty yards easy,” said Brad drily. “If Price gets fooled like that again it’s good night to us! It was a peach of a throw, wasn’t it?”

“I guess we weren’t looking for it,” said Ira. “I thought they’d rush.”

“So did I. They’ll bear watching. No one saw that. They’ll try our line now, though. There they go! You would, would you? Well, you can stay where you are, Kenwood! How much did they get? Not more than a yard, eh?”

“About two feet, I think,” answered Ira. “Brackett was right there, that time.”

Kenwood tried the centre and pushed through for two and a wide end run around the Parkinson left gave her three more. Then the Blue was forced to punt and the pigskin settled into Dannis’ arms and he dodged one end and scampered over two white lines before he was pulled down.

Parkinson plugged at the centre, hurling Wirt and Cole into the blue wall, but Kenwood stood fast and Wirt again booted the ball far down the field. With that wind behind him it was no feat to kick fifty yards once he got the ball high enough and this time the opposing left half-back caught well over in a corner. It was a fair-catch again, which was fortunate, since both Parkinson ends were by him when the ball came down. Kenwood tried another long forward and again eluded the enemy, but the throw was short this time and the ball went back. A plunge at Conlon got through for six and a skin-tackle play on the right added two more. But, with two to go on the fourth down, Kenwood again punted, trying to keep the ball low and out of the wind with the result that it rolled out of bounds near the Parkinson forty-yard line. Parkinson was not yet satisfied that she couldn’t dent the opposing line, and Cole and Wells were hurled against it, with the result that after three attempts the ball was not far from where it had started.

“Gee, they’ve got some line there,” marvelled Brad. “I suppose ‘The’ wanted to know what he’s up again, but it looks to me as if he was silly not to kick while he’s got this wind behind him. All right, Lester! Make it a good one! Get down there, Ray!”

Once more the pigskin sped toward the further goal and once more the Brown and the Blue scampered after it. This time the ball went askew and landed outside near Kenwood’s thirty. The Blue made the first down of the game then. Parkinson failed to diagnose a cross-buck play that slashed her line at left guard, and a big blue-legged back came fighting through and wasn’t stopped until he had put eight yards behind him. Two plunges gave Kenwood the rest of her distance and the blue pennants waved and triumphant cheers crashed out. Kenwood found encouragement and smashed savagely at the Parkinson line. Twice she made three yards. Then Fred Lyons dived through and brought down the runner behind the line, and Kenwood punted to the enemy’s eighteen. And so it went for the rest of that quarter, Kenwood plunging and punting only when she was forced to, Parkinson plunging and punting regularly on third down. The wind tipped the scales in the home team’s favour, and when but a scant three minutes remained it was Parkinson’s ball on her own forty-eight yards. The stand was cheering hopefully now. Coach Driscoll, hands in pockets, uncoated, walked slowly back and forth, his gaze always on the play, his expression always undisturbed.

“If we can get to their thirty-five, Walt can put it over the bar,” said Brad tensely. “Wouldn’t you think ‘The’ would try that split-line play, Rowland? Look where Kenwood’s playing her ends! Man alive, we could get around that left easy! I believe he’s going to. No, it’s another line play. Oh, tush!”

“Looks like a forward,” observed Ira. “Unless we’re really going to kick on first down!”

“It’s an end-around, that’s what it is. I hope it’s Price. It is! Here he comes! Oh, rotten pass! Got it, though! In, you idiot! In! Got him! No, he’s past! Go it, Chester! Go it, you—Wow! Five—ten—twelve yards, old man! What do you know about that, fellows?”

Expressions of delight from the substitutes, however, were drowned in the roar that swept over their heads from the stand behind them. The cheer leaders were on their feet again, brown megaphones waving. Brad leaned closer and shouted amidst the din: “It’s square on their forty, Rowland! And it’s first down! We’ve got them going!”

“There isn’t much time,” said Ira doubtfully.

“Time enough! Two more rushes and then a try-at-goal and first blood for old Parkinson!”

Wirt back again and the ball to Cole for a plunge at left guard. Only a scant yard and a half gained. Wirt still back and the ball to Wells, and the backfield trailing to the right like a wall, with the runner scurrying along behind it. A break in the opposing line, a quick turn by Wells. Through! But only through, for a Kenwood man is on him and half a dozen bodies pile together and the whistle blows.

“Four more!” cried Brad. “Now then, Walter! Put it over, old man. You can do it with this wind back of you!!”

But it was still Wirt back, and Brad groaned and shook his head sadly as Cole tucked the ball to his stomach and went head-on into a resolute defence for a scant half-yard gain.

“Oh, shucks! Fourth down!” wailed Brad. “Why the dickens didn’t they try for a goal? What’s this? Another end-around? No, it’s Wells outside tackle. Watch it! By Jove, he’s done it! How much did we need? Four? Then we’ve got it! Got to measure it, eh? Who’s that down? One of our fellows? No, he’s a Blue-leg.”

“Kenwood left tackle,” said Ritter from further along. “How much time is there, Brad?”

“I don’t know. About a minute, I think. We’ve got it! First down! We’ll do it yet!”

The linemen were trotting off, trailing the chain, and the referee had waved his arm toward the Kenwood goal. The Parkinson cheer leaders were dancing along the side line and a mighty volume of triumph rolled across the field.

Parkinson went back at the centre and was stopped short, Wells squirmed outside tackle for two yards, Cole smashed at the right guard and went spinning through for another two. Now the pigskin lay almost on the twenty-five-yard line. The timekeeper was edging nearer and nearer. Ira viewed him anxiously and chewed harder on that straw. A sudden lull in the wind allowed Dannis’ voice to reach them:

“Come on now, Parkinson! Let’s have it! Signals! Lyons back!”

“It’s a place kick!” exclaimed Brad. “Go to it, Fred! Hold that line, Parkinson!”

Dannis was on one knee and patting the turf. Fred was walking back slowly. Then he stopped, studied the distance and shortened it a stride. Dannis crept further back and leaned an elbow on the ground. From the blue team came hoarse commands, implorations:

“Get through, Kenwood! Block this kick! Block this kick!”

A moment of silence, a brown streak from between Conlon’s legs, the ball settles in Dannis’ hands. Very carefully he turns it, points it. Fred Lyons steps forward one step and his right foot swings in a long arc. The lines are battling fiercely. Kenwood comes plunging, leaping through, arms upstretched. But the ball is sailing well above the eager fingers. Now the wind has it and it veers to the right, still rising, turning lazily over in its flight, sailing nearer and nearer the further upright——

An instant of silence and suspense and then a wild burst of acclaim from the Brown stand, for the Parkinson players are running back, thumping each other on the shoulders, capering, tossing their head-harnesses aloft!

“Goal!” shouted Brad exultantly. “Three for us! Cheer, Rowland, you wooden Indian!”

Ira smiled. “It’s bully, isn’t it? I thought at first he’d missed it, though.”

“So did I. I guess it was pretty close. Well, that’ll do for a start. Three points may look pretty big when this game’s over!”