Half a minute later the horn blew and the quarter ended.

Parkinson went back to line attacks, now that she was facing the wind, and soon yielded the ball. Kenwood, profiting by her adversary’s example, started a kicking game. History repeated herself and every exchange of punts gave the Blue a good five yards of territory and before the period was many minutes old Parkinson was digging her cleats into her thirty-yard line. Dannis let the centre alone now and sent his backs outside of tackles and made gains of a sort. Only once did she try a forward-pass, and then it was a short one over the middle of the line that gained her eight yards. Slowly but irrevocably she was being forced back. When, from her twenty-five, Wirt’s punt was caught in a flurry of wind and blown almost back to him and captured by the enemy, it was evident that Fortune meant to even her favours.

The Kenwood supporters cheered incessantly while the Blue team tore at the Brown line and, failing to gain the distance, again punted. This time it was Parkinson’s time to taste of luck, for Dannis, cuddling the ball to him squarely on his goal line, leaped away, eluding both Kenwood ends, and tore it past friend and enemy to his own forty-two yards amidst a perfect thunder of cheers. But three tries only netted six yards and Wirt had to punt and the ball was Kenwood’s again on her fifteen yards. A penalty set her back five and then came another long forward-pass and the pigskin was back in midfield. Price, right end, was hurt and Ritter took his place.

Kenwood smashed the line once, skirted the left end once and tried a quarter-back run, all for a gain of five yards. Back went her punter and the Parkinson backfield scattered. But the ball didn’t sail into the air this time. Instead, it was borne straight through centre by the husky fullback for a good seven yards, and when the dust of battle had settled Conlon and Brackett were on their faces.

“They got Terry,” said Brad. “I saw it. It was their right guard. Guess Brackett’s only winded, though.”

And to prove it, Brackett was already climbing to his feet. But Conlon was taking full time and Billy Goode was kneeling over him solicitously. Coach Driscoll was looking intently across the field, and Billy had scarcely raised a beckoning hand before he had swung smartly on his heel and his eyes were searching the line of substitutes.

“Rowland! On the run!” he called sharply.

Ira, startledly disentangling himself from his blanket, stumbled to his feet, dimly aware of Brad’s cheerful and envious “Good luck!”, and hurried across. He expected the coach to give him instructions, but Mr. Driscoll only nodded sidewise toward the line-up.

“Go in at centre,” he said. “Here, leave your sweater behind!”

Ira stopped and struggled out of that garment, tossed it behind him and trotted on. They were carrying Conlon off, his head sagging, and as Ira paused to catch the head-harness tossed by Billy Goode he had a glimpse of the boy’s pale face, dirt-streaked and drawn with pain, and something that was as near like fear as Ira had ever felt came to him!

Then Dannis was thumping his arm and the others were grinning tiredly at him and he was pulling his harness on. In front of him, inches wider of shoulder and inches taller, loomed the formidable Beadle. He was a fine-looking youth, in spite of a swollen mouth and a greenish lump under one eye, and there was nothing savage in the steady look he gave Ira. It was an appraising look, and as Ira met it something very much like a smile flickered for an instant in the big centre’s eyes. Then the signals came and Ira stepped back out of the line and the game went on.

For the first few minutes Ira had only a dim conception of what he was doing and of what was going on about him. He worked in a sort of haze, doing what he had been taught to do, blocking, breaking through, tripping, falling, racing here and there after the ball, passing now and then, always with his breath coming hard and every energy alert. Kenwood came through time after time, but the gains were short. Beadle was a terror at his job and Ira’s efforts to stop him were seldom more than half successful. Beadle was quicker than anyone Ira had ever played against, and he knew more tricks, and he was terribly hard to reach. Ira worked like a Trojan during that remaining six minutes, and sometimes he got the better of his man, but those times were few in number. Toward the end of the half Parkinson palpably played for time, and it was only that that saved her, for when the welcome whistle finally blew the enemy was raging about her fifteen yards. Had Kenwood been satisfied with a goal from the field she might easily have made it, for two chances were hers, but Kenwood wanted a touchdown and kept after it, and only the timer’s watch defeated her. As it was, Parkinson trotted back to the gymnasium still leading by three points, but very doubtful of the outcome.

Ira was wondering how it would be possible for him to last another half-hour, for it seemed to him that he had already done a day’s work. He had a bleeding nose—he couldn’t remember where or how he had got it—and one of his wrists had been badly wrenched, but compared with some of the others he was in fine condition! The locker-room was a scene of wild confusion, with rubbers hard at word, a vile odour of liniment in the air, dozens of tired voices scolding, the sound of rushing water over all. Mended and massaged, Ira sank into a corner and tiredly looked on. Fred Lyons, pale-faced, agitated, was pushing Billy Goode aside in his effort to reach Coach Driscoll.

“Oh, let me alone, Billy! I’m all right, I tell you! Coach! Coach! What are we going to do if they try that forward-passing again! We haven’t a man who can stop it! It’s rotten!”

“It’s up to the ends,” answered Mr. Driscoll. “What’s wrong with them? Where were you, White? And you, Price? Haven’t you been taught——”

“It wasn’t my end, sir!” denied Ray warmly.

“It’s always your end! Any end’s your end in a forward-pass! You don’t keep your eyes open! Bradford! You go in at left end next half and see if you can cover your man. Where’s Wells? Look here, what sort of football have you been taught? Can’t you do anything but throw your head back and paw the air? You weren’t much better, Cole. Someone’s got to get through that line if we expect to win this game. Slow starting and slow running! It’s been awful! Dannis, you’ve got to speed them up next half. They’ll fall asleep in their tracks! Lyons, for the love of Mike, let Billy get that bandage on you! What is it, Lowell? Oh, I don’t know. Yes, let them have it. Well, Rowland!” The coach paused in front of Ira and looked down at him with a sneer. “You’re a fine piece of work, aren’t you? Is that the best you can do?”

Ira, startled and surprised, looked back dumbly. Surely this wasn’t the Mr. Driscoll he knew, this snarling, contemptuous person with the flashing eyes!

“Can’t you fight a little bit?” went on the coach. “Clean yellow, are you? All you did was stand up there and take your punishment. Let me tell you something, Rowland. They’re coming after you this next half. They’re going to flay you if you don’t show signs of life. They want a touchdown and they mean to have it and they’ll be hitting the centre from now on. What do you intend to do about it, eh? Speak up!”

“Why—why—” faltered Ira, “I—I’m going to do the best I can!”

“Best you can be blowed! Don’t you know you’re up against the best centre there is today on a school team? ‘Do the best you can!’ Great Scott, man, you’ve got to do better than you can! Better than you ever dreamed of doing! You’ve got to fight! This isn’t any Sunday-school picnic. This is football. We’re out to win. I was afraid all along you had a yellow streak, and now I know it. But you’ll stay in there until you have to be carried off, like Conlon. Want to know what your trouble is?”

Ira was still too amazed to answer.

“You’re a coward! That’s your trouble! You’re afraid! You don’t dare fight back! You’re a plain squealer! I’ve got your measure, son!”

Ira felt the blood pouring into his cheeks as he jumped to his feet and faced the coach with clenched hands.

“You take that back!” he said in a low voice that trembled in spite of him.

“Take it back!” sneered the coach. “Yes, I’ll take it back when you show I’m wrong. You can’t bluff me, Rowland. I see right through you.”

“You take it back now, or—” Ira stopped and his arms fell at his sides. “You’re coach now,” he said hardly above a whisper, “but afterwards—if you aren’t what you say I am—you’ll—you’ll answer for what—what——”

But the tears, hot, angry tears, were no longer to be denied, and he ended in a sob and turned away blindly and stumbled his way to the door. Outside, in the cold sunlight, he blinked the tears back and tried to get control of himself. Coward, was he? Then what was the coach? He had taken advantage of his authority! He knew well enough he wouldn’t be called to account now. But afterwards! Just wait until the game was over, until they had quit training! Ira’s hands clenched until they hurt. They’d see who was the coward. Driscoll wouldn’t be coach then, he’d be just—just a thing to strike! He—

And then the door banged open and the players came trooping out, Fred Lyons in the lead, and Ira fell in with them as they passed and went back to the field, his thoughts in a strange confusion and a red-hot anger at his heart.

It was Parkinson’s kick-off and Fred, no longer white and tremulous, but quiet and cheerful and composed, sent the ball skimming the heads of the charging enemy. Then the battle began again, desperately. Kenwood settled down to batter her way through the opposing line. Forward-passes were not for them any longer. They wanted the six points a touchdown would give them and they meant to have them, and their way of getting them was to wear down the enemy and make weight and endurance tell. Minutes passed and the slow, steady grind went on. Twice Kenwood made her distance through the opposing line, yet, once past midfield, her plunges failed. Then came a punt, and it was Parkinson’s turn. There was little to choose between those rival teams today. Offence and defence were evenly matched, and only when one side was favoured by the wind did that team’s kicking excel. Between the two thirty-yard lines the battle raged until the third period was nearly gone. Then fortune favoured the visitors and a runner got away past Fred Lyons and reeled off twenty-odd yards before Dannis brought him down. The enemy was on the Brown’s twenty-two-yards now and it was first down. Plunge, plunge, plunge! Two yards—three yards—one yard! Four to go still and only one down left! A fake attack at centre and a back stealing off to the left, Wells breaking through and bringing him crashing to earth, cheers and frenzied shrieks of joy and relief from the Brown stand! Back to midfield then under the ball, and the same thing to do all over again.

No scoring in that first fifteen minutes. Subs going in now for both teams. Basker for Dannis, Pearson for Wells, Neely for Brackett on the Brown. Parkinson works the ends for short gains and then Wirt tears through the redoubtable Beadle and goes on and on, dodging, turning, twisting, throwing off tackle after tackle!

The ball is on the enemy’s thirty-four-yards. Pearson, fresh and eager, makes four through tackle on the left, Cole adds two more, Wirt is stopped. Off goes the ball on a short kick and the Kenwood quarter is thrown on his five-yard line. Now the Blue desperately tries a forward-pass again, faking a kick, but Bradford has his man covered and the ball rolls into the hay. Two attempts at the line and Kenwood punts far down the field. Basker fumbles, recovers and is thrown on his twenty-eight. Pearson slips around the end for a yard, Cole gets three through Beadle, Cole takes the ball for two more, Wirt punts. And so it goes, and the minutes slip by. Kenwood sees defeat staring at her now. Eight minutes left and the ball again in midfield. Kenwood tries desperate tactics. She pulls her line apart and opens her bag of tricks. Sometimes she fools the enemy and gains, but for the most part she is forced to fall back on a punt on third down or fourth. Five minutes left and Parkinson well satisfied now to play on the defensive and hold what she has. And then, a sudden change in the fortunes of the game!

It was Basker’s fault, for the punt was unmistakably Pearson’s. With both backs trying for it, the pigskin escaped and trickled past, and a flying Kenwood end was on it. Fortunately, Basker got him in the act of finding his feet again and pulled him back to earth, but the pigskin was Kenwood’s on Parkinson’s twenty-seven-yards and there was time enough to turn a victory to a defeat!

Then it was that Kenwood made her final, fiercest effort. Straight at the centre she sent her backs. Slowly but surely the Brown gave way. Play after play crashed at Lyons and Ira and Donovan, sometimes gaining a yard, sometimes two, infrequently more. Beadle worked like a wild man, but the holes weren’t always there now. Time and again he brought up against his opponent as against a stone wall. Something—Beadle could never guess what—had wrought a change in that smiling-faced adversary since the first inning. The smile was still there, but it was a different smile. This man Rowland was playing him out, and he knew it well now. He couldn’t fool him any longer, couldn’t turn him in or pull him past as he had before. Every inch had to be fought for desperately.

Back to her seventeen went Parkinson, fighting hard but giving a little each time. Kenwood might tie the game now if she chose to try a field-goal, but Kenwood wanted a victory. Still she aimed her plays at the centre, from guard to guard, though twice she attempted the ends and was stopped. Two yards was her best gain, once past the fifteen, and after that the distances grew shorter each time. With five to go on fourth down and the ball just short of the ten-yard line, she sent her quarter sneaking out toward the left end and, somehow, he squirmed and wriggled through for the distance. Parkinson’s supporters were imploring wildly as the panting teams lined up on the seven-yards. It was now or never for the Blue, while, if she got over that line, Parkinson’s lot would be defeat, for the minutes were nearly gone.

Kenwood sent her full-back straight at centre. The Brown line bent, but held. A scant yard was gained. Then an attack on Lyons made two. Third down now and four to go! Kenwood shifted, thought better of it, changed her signals and shifted back. Quarter and captain walked apart and whispered. Then signals again, and once more the plunge came at Ira. There was a moment of heaving, panting confusion, the charge faltered and stopped. Another yard was gone!

Kenwood lined up quickly, put her backs in a tandem behind her left guard and the signals piped once more. But the tandem split and the ball went again to the big full-back and again he charged, head down, straight into the centre. Cries, grunts, the rasping of canvas! A surge forward checked in the instant. A second surge as the Kenwood linesmen turned in behind the attack. A yard gained! A sudden pause then and, somewhere, a faint voice grunting “Down!”

The whistle shrilled and the referee dived into the mass of squirming players. One by one they were thrust aside or pulled breathless to their feet until only two figures remained there on the trampled turf. One was the fullback with the ball clutched desperately under him, but a full yard from the line, and the other was the Kenwood centre. Above the latter stood a boy in a brown uniform who looked down at his vanquished foe with a queer, crooked smile on his lips.

They lifted Beadle to his uncertain feet presently and carried him away, and the game went on. But the time was practically up, for after Wirt had punted from behind his goal and Kenwood had made a fair-catch on the enemy’s forty-five-yard line the final whistle blew and the Parkinson hordes swept down from the stand and flooded over the field with waving pennants.

Ira, head hanging, feet dragging, climbed the gymnasium steps. He had fought off those who would have placed him aloft and borne him around the field—they had captured fully half the team—and made his escape. With him was a happy, dirty-visaged Brad and an equally disreputable Pearson, for substitutes will flock together even in the hour of triumph, and behind and in front were straggling groups of other heroes. Brad found Ira strangely taciturn on the way to the gymnasium, and marvelled. Himself, he could have danced, as tired as he was! They burst riotously into the building, shouting mightily, and tore off soaking, dirt-grimed togs.

Ira, struggling grimly with his shirt, heard his name called above the din and saw Coach Driscoll standing in front of him. The shirt parted with a rip and Ira stepped forward, free.

“Are we out of training yet, sir?” he asked.

The coach nodded. He was smiling gravely. Ira wondered at that smile even as he poised himself to strike.

“Wait a minute, Rowland,” said Mr. Driscoll quietly. “There’s time enough.”

Ira paused irresolutely. “What is it?” he demanded frowningly.

“First, it’s an apology,” answered the coach. “Don’t you understand yet, Rowland?”

“Understand? Yes, I understand that you—you called me a coward a while ago, Mr. Driscoll. We’re not in training now and you’re going to answer for it!”

“My dear fellow,” laughed the coach, “I’m quite ready to answer for it. But listen to me first, will you? I suppose I played rather a mean trick on you, but I think the end justifies it. You weren’t doing yourself justice. You weren’t half playing the game you could play—and did play afterwards. And I knew there was only one way to wake you up, and that that was to make you angry. I’m sorry, Rowland, if I hurt you, even for a half-hour, but—well, I wanted to win! We all did! Even you did, though you didn’t know it! Rowland, if I hadn’t insulted you you’d never have played Beadle to a standstill, my boy! We won and you did a big share of the work. And you did it because you were mad clean through. Now didn’t you?”

Ira’s look of amazement brought chuckles of amusement from the circle of listeners.

“You mean that—that you said that just to—to make me play better?” gasped Ira.

The coach nodded. “Just for that,” he said. “And now I apologise. You’re no coward, Rowland, and I never believed you to be. Want to shake hands and forget it?”

A smile came slowly to Ira’s face and he shook his head hopelessly. “Football,” he murmured, “is a funny game!” But he stretched his hand out and clasped the coach’s firmly.