If Ned wished to avoid explanations regarding the recovery of his money he could have had no better time to make his announcement than at the breakfast-table that morning, for everyone was far too interested in the event of the afternoon to do more than express congratulations. Brooks had instructed the players to spend the morning in whatever way was customary, but not to tire themselves. Molly was on hand soon after breakfast. The silk flag was finished to the last stitch and looked very well even if, as Spud insisted, the W was woozy.

“We shall be very proud to have that, Molly,” said Sandy, “but there’s something else I think we ought to have as a reward for winning—if we do win.”

“Something else? What?” asked Molly.

“That pillow-case!”

“You shall! If House wins I’ll give it back. Now, isn’t that generous of me, Sandy? For after I give that up I’ll have no hold over any of you any longer and you’ll all treat me just shamefully.”

“You try us,” said Hoop.

“Besides, Molly,” remarked Spud, “’tis better to rule by love than through fear.”

“Oh, listen to that!” jeered The Fungus. “Sounds like the top line in a copy-book. What’s the matter with ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ Spud?”

“There’s a better one yet,” Spud reminded him gravely. “‘Silence is golden,’ Fungus.”

“What are we going to do this morning?” asked Hoop moodily.

“Let’s go for chestnuts,” said Molly. “Don’t you like them? I know where there are lots and lots, bushels and bushels! And we’ll have them boiled.”

“They’ll do for our club luncheon tomorrow,” suggested Dutch. “Where are they, Molly?”

“Never mind. You come with me and I’ll show you.”

“Not far, I hope,” said Spud. “I mustn’t get tired. I’ve got to run the length of the field this afternoon for a touchdown.”

“Gee, you’d have to run about ten miles before you’d ever make a touchdown,” said The Fungus unpleasantly.

“Is that so?” asked Spud. “The rest of you can hunt chestnuts if you like; I’m going to hunt toadstools!”

Whereupon he made for The Fungus. But the latter was not caught so easily and they had it around the house several times before The Fungus was finally driven to bay. Spud was valor itself as long as The Fungus fled before him, but when the adversary put his back to the house and invited closer acquaintance Spud held off and viewed him dubiously.

“Huh,” he said finally, “you’re too hideous to touch!”

They followed Molly to the woods and found that she had not exaggerated so greatly after all. The nuts were plentiful enough and the frosts had started the burs opening. Of course most everyone had trouble with the stickers and Dutch actually sat down on a bur with uncomfortable results. But they had a good time and returned at half-past ten with nearly two quarts of nuts. After that they sat on the porch, in the sun for a while and ate as many as they wanted. Then Molly took charge of the rest and agreed to have them boiled for the morrow’s meeting of the Pippin Club.

Dinner was early today, at twelve o’clock, in order that the players might have time to get over its effects before the game started at two. But no one ate much, Cal especially being extremely chary of food. He was much too anxious and excited to eat. At one the fellows left West House and went through the park toward the gymnasium. They were all rather silent, even Spud for once finding little to say. Clara alone was absent as he had agreed to wait and conduct Molly and Mrs. Linn to the field.

“Well,” said Ned once on the way over, “when we come back we’ll either be feeling a lot better or a lot worse.”

And Sandy, who grew more pessimistic and hopeless as the crucial hour drew nigh, answered:

“We’ll feel a heap worse, I guess!”

The final game drew many friends of the school to Oak Park that day and the seating accommodations were quite inadequate. Long before two o’clock the gridiron was edged with spectators. On the Hall side, reposing on a little table, lay the Silver Shield, the trophy for the possession of which some forty-odd boys had toiled and moiled day after day for nearly two months. The sun shone brightly and there was almost no breeze when the two teams faced each other for the kick-off, but there was a sharp wintery nip in the air that made the watchers along the lines turn up coat-collars and stamp about. The whistle piped and the final game began.

I’m not going to tell you of that first half in detail for more reasons than one. In the first place nothing happened. In the second place it was poorly played. Both teams, House and Hall alike, were too eager. They missed all sorts of opportunities, fumbled, played off-side, held in the line and proceeded in the most futile, headless manner imaginable. It seemed as though House was politely doing its best to hand the game to Hall, while Hall, determined not to be outdone in courtesy, was resolved to present the contest to its adversary. All during that half Cal sat on the side of the field, wrapped in a gray woollen blanket with vivid red borders, and groaned in spirit as he watched the teams tramp back and forth between their respective thirty yard-lines. For neither eleven had the remotest chance to score. When the thirty minutes was up Cal joined the others and trotted to the gymnasium.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in his blanket, the teams had changed goals, the air was colder and the shadows longer and it was now or never. A ray of sunlight, dodging past Doctor Webster’s shoulder, burned ruddily on the Silver Shield. Perhaps it was meant as an omen.

Cal wondered if Brooks would let him on. He had been wondering that for days and days. Now there was only a half-hour left and his chance seemed wofully slim. Both Dutch and Griffin were as strong as ever. Five minutes passed. Hall had the ball on House’s forty-two yards. Two plays with no gain, an attempted forward pass and House had it. A slow advance to Hall’s forty-eight yards and again the pigskin changed hands. Hall kicked on the second down and M’Crae ran the ball back fifteen yards before he was thrown. An end run by Ned gained four yards and Boyle slammed through center for three more. M’Crae kicked. Ten minutes had gone. Cal’s heart grew leaden. Time was called and Brooks turned toward the little group of substitutes.

“Hooper!” he called.

Hoop jumped up and threw aside his blanket. Cal helped him peel off his sweater, envy in full possession of him. Sandy, white and weary, crept up and wrapped himself up.

“We’re playing simply rotten,” he groaned. “We ought to have them licked by now.”

Fasset, of Hall, got away for a long run around Spud’s end that took the ball to House’s twenty-eight yards and Hall shouted its joy. Two tries at the left wing netted but six yards and Grow fell back as though for a placement. McDonald knelt to place the ball for him. But when the ball came he jumped up and raced along the line, seeking an opening. The trick failed, for the quarter was thrown for no gain, and on the second play M’Crae kicked out of danger. The half was fifteen minutes old. Then came another pause and Turner went in for A. Westlake at center and the Hall made two changes. Cal, watching Dutch and Griffin as a cat watches a mouse, thought that the latter was at last showing signs of wear. Back up the field toiled Hall, trying desperate things now; runs around end from trick formations, forward passes that seldom worked, charges at the line from strange angles. It was after one of these that Cal saw Griffin being lifted to his feet. Cal’s heart leaped into his throat and throbbed there uncomfortably until Brooks turned and held up his hand and called.

What was he saying? Cal strove to hear, but his heart was making too much noise. It was Sandy who prodded him.

“Go on in, you duffer! Brooks wants you!”

A minute later Cal was looking into the pale, perspiring face of Dixon. At last he was in! The first few minutes passed as though in a dream. Cal did mechanically what he had been taught to do. Once someone thumped him heavily on the back and a voice screeched:

“Lower, Boland! Get down there!”

Then it was House’s ball again. The signals came, Cal leaped into his opponent and Ned went twisting through with a rasping of canvas and the panting of many breaths. Cal went down with someone on his head. A hand reached and yanked him to his feet.

“Second down!” called the referee. “Seven to go.”

“Kick formation!” called M’Crae hoarsely. “Twenty-two, twenty-six, fourteen—”

Dixon plunged at Cal and Cal threw himself in his path. There was the sound of boot against ball and he was racing down the field. Ahead of him a Hall back was signalling a fair catch. Then came a shout. The back had missed the ball. Pandemonium broke loose on the House side. Cal, racing up, found Spud snuggling the ball to his arms, with half a dozen players above him.

“House’s ball!” cried the referee. “First down!”

“Line up, fellows! Get into this now! Here’s where we score!”

That was Brooks, ecstatic. The ball was on Hall’s thirty-two yards and there remained eight minutes of time; plenty of time to win or lose. Brooks went down the line, thumping backs, encouraging, entreating.

“Play hard, House! Here’s where we win! Play hard, hard, HARD!”

“Watch for a forward pass!” shouted Grow as the quarter knelt. Cal could hear Brooks panting like a steam-engine beside him. Dixon, his opponent, shifted warily, his eyes flitting from Cal to the ball. The signal came. Cal wondered if he had got it right, but there was no time for speculation. The lines clashed. Dixon pulled him in and went through. But the play was safe, Boyle, whirling like a Dervish with the oval tightly clasped in his arms, getting past tackle on the other end.

“Second down! Seven to go!”

“Signal!” piped M’Crae. “Signal! Sixty-two, forty-one, thirteen, twenty-eight—”

Cal shot across at Pete Grow, Brooks in advance, and Ned slammed by tackle for two yards more. But there was still five to go and the backs eyed M’Crae and their captain anxiously as the teams lined up again. Brooks had been playing for a touchdown, but now it seemed that a try at a field-goal was all that remained, for five yards was more than they could hope to tear off at one try. But the ball, although well inside the thirty yard-line, was near the side of the field and the goal angle was extreme.

“Kick formation!” called M’Crae, and trotted back.

But when the signals came Cal knew that there was to be no kick, and so did Pete Grow.

“Fake!” he shouted. “Fake!”

But the warning was late, for a House player stood almost on the side-line on the short side of the field and after swinging his foot as though kicking, M’Crae made a nice pass to him. It was caught before the Hall left end saw what was up. But the gain was short, for the man with the ball was forced over the line at the twenty-two yards. Still, it was first down again and House still had the ball. In came the pigskin fifteen paces and again the teams faced each other. The Fungus squirmed through for four yards, and Boyle slammed the Hall center for three more.

“Third down!” called Brooks. “Only three to go. Come on now, you House! Get into this! Make it go!”

And make it go they did, although it was necessary to bring the chain in and measure the distance before Jim decided that House had again won a first down. The Red was almost on the ten yards now and the Blue was desperate. Grow threatened and pleaded. Cal, the light of battle in his eyes, gave Dixon all that youth wanted to do. Once he and Brooks made such an opening that Boyle, who carried the ball, might have driven through in coach and four. But the backs stopped him for a short gain. Then The Fungus writhed past left tackle for a good four yards and there was less than three to go, and the ball was almost on the five yard streak. Pandemonium reigned about the field. Jim stopped the game while the crowd was pushed back from the goal-line. Brooks thumped an open hand with his clenched fist.

“We’ve got to do it, fellows, we’ve got to do it!” he kept repeating. “They can’t stop us now!”

It was two and a half to go for a first down, five for a score. It was the height of impudence to select Grow as the victim of the next play, but he had been put effectively out of it a moment before and M’Crae thought he might again. There was a fake pass to Ned and Boyle grabbed the ball and dashed past Brooks. But Hall had sized up the play and the secondary defense leaped forward to close the gap. For an instant the line wavered. Cal, fighting with every ounce of strength, felt it give and a fierce exultation seized him. But despair followed after, for the tide turned. He felt himself going back. Beside him Boyle was grunting and panting, the ball held tight. The House backs threw themselves into the melee, but it was no use. The whistle blew and the referee pulled them away. They had lost first down and the ball by a full yard on the very threshold of victory! M’Crae, casting one despairing look at Brooks, turned and trotted up the field. Brooks, white and miserable, croaked encouragement.

“All right, fellows, we’ll take it away from them! How much time, please?”

The time-keeper trotted up, watch in hand.

“Four and a half minutes,” he called.

Hall, grinning and happy, settled into line. The first plunge netted her six yards right through House’s left wing. Brooks scolded and stormed.

“Hold them! Hold them! Can’t you hold them?”

Hall’s quarter started his signals, but Grow stopped him. There was a whispered consultation and Grow walked back behind his goal-line and held his arms out.

“Kick!” shouted Brooks. “Block it, block it, block it!”

Block it! Cal remembered Ned’s words. Here, then, was his first and final chance to show his worth! Could he get through? And if he did could he get near the ball? He eyed Dixon stealthily. That youth looked pretty solid and formidable. To get inside of him seemed hopeless. The only chance was to coax him in and then get through between him and end, and after that there was a long way to go. But he would try it.

He edged close to Brooks and Dixon followed him. Grow raised his arms. Center shot back the ball. Cal feinted to the left and then sprang past Dixon to the right. A back stood in his way, but Cal sent him staggering. All was confusion and cries and rushing players. Cal saw Grow swing his long leg and heard, or thought he heard the sound as boot met ball. And then he was leaping sideways, arms up-stretched. Something struck him fair under the chin, something that staggered him and then went bouncing erratically back past Brooks, who was stumbling under the attack of the enemy.

For what seemed a long minute to Cal he couldn’t get started. When he did he dodged a frantic pair of blue-clad arms and ran like the wind. The ball was trickling along the turf far back from the goal-line. Half a dozen players, red and blue, were after it, but Cal was ahead. A Hall player came tearing along behind him and Cal knew that if he missed the ball on the first attempt his chance was gone forever. He didn’t wait until he was fully up to it, but dived for it as a cat pounces at a mouse. The distance was more than he had thought and he came to earth with the teetering pigskin an arm’s length away. But he got it, reached it and grabbed it toward him just as the pursuing foe fell upon him and drove all the breath from his body. Others followed, falling and scrambling. Someone tried to wrest the prize away from him, but Cal, although there was scarcely a gasp left in him and his eyes seemed popping from his head, hung to it tenaciously, striving hard to snuggle it under his body. Then somewhere a whistle blew and little by little the awful weight lifted and he could draw a full breath again.

“Let me have it, Boland.”

That was M’Crae’s voice and he was pulling at the ball. But Cal only shook his head and held on.

“It’s—mine!” he gasped.

Then someone turned him over on his back and tore the ball from his hands and began lifting his arms up and down. But Cal was all right now. Brooks, grinning, his face as white as a sheet of paper save for two disks of red in the cheeks, pulled him to his feet and hugged him.

“O you Boland!” he gasped huskily. “O you Boland!”

Cal smiled embarrassedly.

“I cal’late that was a touchdown, wasn’t it?” he asked.

There was no goal kicked, but what did that matter? House didn’t care and Hall could get but slight satisfaction from the fact. Two minutes later the game was over and House, victor by 5 to 0, went cavorting and dancing off the field, tired, aching, bruised and happy.

An hour later, after House had cheered itself hoarse in front of the gymnasium, the West House eight marched back across the park, Sandy striding ahead with the Silver Shield held proudly before him. The West House eight did I say? Rather the West House nine, for beside Sandy tripped Miss Molly Elizabeth Curtis, the Obnoxious Kid, waving triumphantly her red and white banner!

THE END.