For thirty minutes of actual playing time the Blue of Yardley and the Green of Broadwood had advanced and retreated up and down the trampled field of battle. And now the fifteen minute intermission was nearing its end and the rival cheering sections ceased their songs and the cheer leaders, megaphones in hand, watched the slope for sight of the returning warriors. Then the cheers broke forth and the squads trotted down the hill, Yardley in the lead, and blue flags waved and green pennants fluttered and pandemonium reigned. On the scoreboard no chalked figures followed the names of the contenders, for neither side had scored. Never perhaps in the history of the schools had their teams waged a closer conflict. Not once had the ball been inside either twenty-five-yard line in scrimmage, not once had the Blue or the Green seriously threatened the opposing goal. It had been a hard-fought, gruelling battle in mid-field, the ball constantly changing hands. No errors of judgment had given advantage, no fumbles had marred the almost perfect play. Twice penalties had been exacted, once from each team. Machine-like smoothness, thorough teamwork had been the order all through the first two periods, and individual brilliancy had been subordinated. Both teams seemed loath to break away from the safety of old-style football, and line-plunges interspersed with dashes outside tackle had ruled. Once Broadwood had tried a forward-pass, but it had failed and she had not attempted a second. It was still anybody’s game.

Neither side made any changes as the third period started. For Yardley the line-up was still as before: Tubb, Fanning, Rose, Simpson, Casement, Bryan, Halliday, Noyes, Roover, Deering, Snowden. It was Broadwood’s kick-off and Yardley hustled the ball back to her twenty and went at the line again. The Green stopped her for seven yards and Snowden punted to the rival’s twenty-odd. Broadwood tried the left end and made four, tried the center and lost two, sent her backs at right tackle and gained three, and punted to Yardley’s forty. Deering caught and skirted back ten before he was upset. Roover got two past right tackle and three inside right guard. Deering fought through for two more. Snowden punted. And so it went while the precious minutes sped.

On the bench, huddled in sweater and blanket, Toby watched anxiously with the others. And as he watched he strove to keep in mind the lesson that Curran had been teaching him since an hour before the game. The new signals were simple, but there were three sequences that wouldn’t stay put in his mind. Of course, it probably didn’t matter much whether he remembered them or didn’t, for it was safe to say that the coach would not let him in until the game was either well won or lost beyond the possibility of recovery. But it was like Toby to keep hammering away just the same.

Noyes misjudged a punt, his first error, and for a long and anxious four minutes Broadwood hovered about the Blue’s thirty-yards, the ball in her possession. Then the second forward-pass of the game was intercepted by Tubb, and, although he could not get away, he clung tightly to it when tackled and a moment later Snowden had again punted far down the field. Ten minutes had passed of the precious thirty left. Broadwood, fighting back, piled through Yardley’s center for six yards and the green pennants waved and Broadwood voices shouted their triumph. Noyes, limping and white-faced, came off and Winfield took his place at quarter and the Green made her distance for the third time that day. But she was still on her own ground. A full-back run ended disastrously and she punted to Winfield on his own thirty-seven and that slim youth dodged and weaved his way through half the opposing team and was only downed when twenty yards lay behind him. Yardley implored a touchdown in measured chorus. With three to go on fourth down, Yardley hesitated. Before she had decided the whistle signaled the end of the quarter.

On the stands the supporters of the Blue spoke sadly or hopefully of a no-score game. The teams sought the water buckets and lined up once more. But now there were new faces in the opposing ranks. Both sides had begun to call on their reserves. Snow went in for Casement and Candee for Simpson on the Blue team and Broadwood put in a new end and a new half-back.

Winfield called for the three yards on a double-pass play that sent Deering outside left tackle and just failed of the distance. Broadwood opened up her play then. Two forward-passes were tried, of which the first failed and the second won a short ten yards. A fake-kick, with the quarter holding the pigskin, added seven more. Yardley rooters watched in silent agony now. The Green piled through for the rest of the distance and the Broadwood stands went crazy with joy. But there was still a long way to go and Yardley found herself again after another play or two and held for downs when six inches would have given Broadwood a new life. Then came a wild and thrilling end run by Deering that took the ball over four white lines and placed it on Broadwood’s thirty-six. But a fumble by the Blue’s quarter spoiled it and Broadwood recovered the ball. Three attempts netted little and the ball sailed back up the field. Winfield again misjudged and the pigskin went over his head and trickled closer and closer to the Blue’s goal-line, Deering and Winfield in pursuit and two eager Broadwood ends almost upon them. It was Arnold who fell on the ball safely just short of his fifteen-yard-line and who clung to it stoutly while the enemy pounced down on him.

“Six minutes left,” growled Curran, at Toby’s side. “Why don’t we open up? Winfield acts as if we hadn’t a play in the bag but line-plunges!”

Noyes, nearby, almost too wearied to hold up his head, grunted.

“They know everything we’ve got, Curran,” he said. “Watch them when we give the signals. They’re wise to every move! And those backs are wonders! We can’t get away from ’em.”

“Well, we might try!” retorted Curran savagely. “No use lying down, is there? There we go, back at the old hammer again! What’s Tom up to? Oh, Winfield’s coming off. You in again? But you can’t. Who’s Mr. Lyle after? It’s you, Tucker! Boy, it’s you! Remember those signals and shake it up, Tucker, shake it up!”

“Tucker! Come on, come on!” Mr. Lyle was calling and beckoning. Toby, with heart pounding and his throat hot, ran to him on the side-line. “Here’s your chance. Know the signals? Good! Get in there and put some punch into that team. Tell Fanning I say he’s got to open up. Tell him the time’s come to score! Give ’em some running plays, boy. Put ginger into that bunch. Here, Snow! Go in for Casement. All right, Tucker! Beat it!”

Cheers and more cheers, cheers for Winfield and for Casement, cheers for the substitutes speeding on, cheers from across the field, a medley of mad sound that beat on Toby’s ears like a cataract. Then he was in the squad, Fanning twitching him aside, Arnold thumping him on the back, Snowden, white and gasping, patting his shoulder imploringly. “Let me get at ’em, Tucker, will you? Let me try ’em, will you? Let me——”

“Shut up, Larry! What’s the word?” Tom Fanning pulled Toby away. Toby gave the message.

“All right! Open her up! We’ve tried their line until we’re sick of it! There’s six minutes yet, nearly. Come on, Yardley! Let’s get it, let’s get it! We can do it! What do you say?”

“Signals!” shrilled Toby, his voice pitching itself up amongst the clouds as it seemed to him. “Signals!”

It was Yardley’s ball on third down near her twenty, with five to go. Snowden got four of that five and then two more, making it first down on the twenty-five. Then began a march up the field that is still spoken of with bated breath at Yardley. It was a march against time. To the middle of the field went the Blue without a halt. Substitutes went into the opposing line and back-field, but still Yardley advanced. Snowden was the hero of that advance, Snowden first and then Deering, for it was Arnold who got away from Broadwood’s forty-four and plunged onward to her twenty-six. And after that it was Snowden again and then Lamson and again Snowden, and the teams were on the twelve yards. Broadwood was fighting for time, delaying all she dared. The two minutes had been announced when Toby gave the ball to Snowden for a final slide off tackle on the left that, if it went right, would place the ball well in front of the goal. And it did go right, although it took the last ounce of Snowden’s strength and he had to be literally carried off the field.

Watson was hustled on in his place and Yardley was cheering wildly, exultantly for a score. The ball lay just over the ten-yard line now. Four downs would spell victory or defeat. Less than a minute remained. Fanning, almost ready to drop in his tracks, whispered hoarsely of a drop-kick. Toby, seeing his condition, knew he would never make it and shook his head. Fanning didn’t insist. Perhaps he was a bit relieved that he need not make the effort.

“We’ll put it over,” declared Toby confidently. “We can do it!”

But Broadwood had massed her defenses solidly and when, fighting now against time as well as against the enemy’s desperate resistance, Deering had plunged to the left off tackle with scarcely a yard to show for it, Toby’s confidence was disturbed. The Broadwood stand cheered relievedly, exultantly. Tired warriors staggered to position. A babel of shrill cries arose, the referee’s dominating all.

“Second, and nine to go!”

Toby studied the opposing defense, a forward pass in mind, but Broadwood was set for such a trick. It would never go, and if it failed the Green would have the ball as sure as shooting. The pigskin was opposite the left hand goal-post now and, lest a field-goal should prove the last resort, it must be kept centered. Toby thought hard and fast and then shrilled his signals. Heming, who had taken Snowden’s place, hurled himself at the living wall and floundered into it for nearly two yards. Broadwood and Yardley cheers mingled.

“Roover back!” yelped Toby. “67—33—21!” He looked about at the drawn, intense faces of the three backs. “Make it good! 67—33—21—111——”

Toby slapped the ball into Roover’s arms, dug in behind him and followed, floundering, pushing, panting. The Green’s defense wavered, gave, held again. Grunts and groans and hoarse breathings filled the air, and through them the shrill piping of the whistle came.

“Third and seven to go!”

The fake-kick had failed to fool the enemy. Toby looked almost despairingly along the line, searching for some telltale sign in a Broadwood countenance that would hint of failing strength, but he saw none. Distress there was in plenty, but grim determination as well. Seven yards still to go and but two downs left! If only Snowden had remained to try the field-goal! Roover might do it, but Roover was spent and reeling. A horrid fear that failure was to be their portion took possession of Toby for an instant and his heart sank. But the instant passed and he raised his voice cheerfully, encouragingly:

“That’s the stuff, Yardley! One more like that and we’re over! They’re quitting! Get into this hard! Here’s where we win! Signals!”

Heming again, with Roover once more back in kicking position, Heming smashing at the opposing right guard, stopping, edging on, and again stopping, with every Broadwood defender massed before him, thrusting, grunting, fighting like mad. And again the whistle and the quick voice of the referee.

“Fourth down! Five and a half to go!”

“Twelve seconds!” shouted some one.

“Come on, Yardley!” shrieked Toby. “Get in there, Snow! Let’s finish it! You’ve got to do it this time! It’s your last chance, fellows! Hold that line now! Hold it! Roover back!”

The Broadwood defense widened, the backs spread, the ends poised to dash around on the kicker. And Toby, noting, was triumphant. Something had called back to memory that day when, volunteering to play quarter on the second and finding his mind blank of plays, he had unwittingly sent a half straight into the line and made the distance. It was the unexpected that won then, he reflected, and now it must be the unexpected to win again. Broadwood was certain that the enemy would not waste her last chance on a line assault with more than five yards to go. Broadwood looked for a try-at-goal or, failing that, a short, quick heave over the line. Toby looked around. A half must take the ball, for the play must go fast. He wanted Arnold, but Arnold was not fit for the task. Heming, fresher, his young face white with excitement and longing under the streaks of dirt, must make the attempt. Toby called the signals. The tense bodies stiffened. The ball shot back from center to Heming. Roover feigned to catch and kick. The Broadwood ends came racing in. Confusion reigned, and in the very center of it, plunging, fighting, the Yardley ends and backs behind him, was Heming.

Straight at center he had gone. There was no hole awaiting him, but the assault was so sudden, so unexpected that the enemy gave and he went smashing through. Then the Broadwood backs threw themselves to the rescue and the line held. For a moment the advance paused and the referee’s whistle went to his lips, and in that moment Roover charged in behind the struggling wedge, the mass moved forward again, a foot, a yard, faster, and yet faster! And then, suddenly the defense fell to pieces and Heming, his head and shoulders well above the sea of writhing bodies, shot forward and down and was gone from sight. And from the Yardley stands arose a straining shout that reached even Toby, buried deep in the wake of the victory!

A few minutes later, when goal had been tried for and missed, when cheers were hurtling up at a shadowing sky and the field of battle was a mad scene of Yardley rejoicing, Toby, rather the worse for wear, got to his feet, assisted by Arnold and Tubb, while about them an impatient mob waited to seize them and carry them off. He cast an apologetic look at Arnold.

“I’m awfully sorry, Arn,” he panted.

“Sorry for what?” demanded the other.

“That fourth down. I wanted you to have the ball, Arn, but I didn’t dare. You were too done up. It had to be Heming, honest!”

“Oh, forget it, old dear! Of course it had to be Heming! What do you suppose I care? We won, didn’t we?”

“Did we?” exclaimed Tubb exultantly. “Did we! Why, say——”

“Then that’s all right,” said Toby happily. “I was afraid——”

But Toby’s fear was never voiced then, for the waiting mob descended on them and rude hands hoisted them aloft, and Toby, bobbing about above the heads of the laughing, shouting, pushing throng, knew for a moment a joy of triumph as great as Alexander’s after the Battle of Issus!

THE END