Over near the twenty-yard line, on the side of the field, Coach Cotting squatted on one knee and watched with expressionless face. But a pebble, picked from the turf, flew back and forth incessantly from one hand to the other. Further along a line of blanket-draped substitutes crouched low, their faces anxious and intent. One of these was Rodney and one was Phineas Kittson. Kitty had twice expressed mild surprise that his services had not been called for. I think he had almost begun to doubt Cotting’s intelligence. But the coach redeemed himself then and there. As the whistle shrilled he sprang alertly to his feet.

“Kittson!” he cried.

Kitty, dropping his blanket, hurried across. The coach clapped him on the shoulder.

“Go in for Captain Doyle,” he said quietly. “And stop them where they are, Kittson!”

Doyle, after an instant of bewildered rebellion, handed the captaincy to Stacey Trowbridge, yielded his head-guard to Kitty and walked off, none too steadily, to a loyal cheer from the south stand. Then a hush fell on the field and the quarter-back’s signals sounded clearly and ominously.

“41—21—64!” A pause, and then: “41—21——”

There was a mad plunge, a confusion of striving bodies and then the fateful sound of the whistle. Slowly the tangled players found their feet. There was an instant of suspense for the watchers on the stands. Then Bursley, jumping and waving, started back up the field and Maple Hill ranged herself behind the posts. The ball lay squarely on the line and the Red-and-Blue had scored a touchdown!

Two minutes later another point had been added to Bursley’s score and the game stood 7 to 3. There was six minutes remaining when the ball was recovered after the goal had been kicked and the teams again ranged themselves on the field. Captain Doyle, blanketed, white of face and dismayed, paced slowly back toward the center of the field at the coach’s side. The ball arched up and away and the players raced toward it. Beyond the further end of the trampled field the sun was setting in a blaze of golden glory.

“There’s Merrill,” the coach was saying.

Terry Doyle shook his head hopelessly.

“They’ll play on the defense now,” went on Mr. Cotting. “It’s a time to try everything we have, Terry. We can’t lose any more and we may win something. We might put in Burnham, too.”

“All right, sir. You know best. But Tyson still looks good.”

“I know, but—Who’s got that ball? He’s down! Fumbled! Good work, Hunter! He’s played a good game, Hunter. Well, we’ll try Merrill, I guess. I’ll send him in after this play. Merrill!”

Rodney ran up, trailing his blanket behind him. The coach took his arm and led him along with them as they walked. “Merrill,” he said, never taking his eyes from the play for more than a fleeting instant, and speaking easily and untroubledly, “do you want to go in and have a try at it?”

“Yes, sir!” Rodney’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Well, go ahead after this play. You know you slipped up the other day, Merrill. Maybe this is a good time to get square. What do you think?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll try, Mr. Cotting.”

The coach nodded. “I would. Tell Trowbridge I said he was to use you and that from now on everything goes. He will understand. Get it?”

“He’s to use me and from now on everything goes,” repeated Rodney.

“Right. There’s the whistle. Go in for Tyson.”

Rodney dropped his blanket and raced on with upraised head. The teams were on Maple Hill’s forty-five yards and already Stacey was taking his position behind Pounder.

“Substitute for left half, sir!” cried Rodney to the referee.

Stacey rose and nodded. “You’re off, Roger,” he said. He drew back with Rodney. “Any instructions?”

“Cotting says you’re to use me and that from now on everything goes,” whispered Rodney.

“All right. Watch close! Got your signals pat, Rodney? Don’t miss ’em! All right, fellows! Make this go now! Here’s where we start something!”

Rodney, pulling his head guard on, jumped to his place between guard and tackle.

Then came the signals and he dropped back, the other half taking his position on the opposite side. Then the ball was in play and Rodney was snuggling it to his stomach and plunging straight ahead through a hole that Kitty and Pounder had opened. But the Bursley backs smothered him after a two-yard gain and he struggled to his feet again before the whistle had ceased its shrill command. Once more he took the ball and slid off at a tangent, by the left guard, and once more he was stopped for a short gain. Then Hunter found a hole and went through and, with three to go, Stacey called for kick formation and then himself took the ball and made the distance straight through center. Maple Hill cheered loudly.

“Line up, fellows! Quick!” shouted Stacey. “Here we go!”

And go they did. One white line after another passed under foot. Bursley hurried in substitute after substitute, delaying the game as much as they could. Two times out of every three the ball went to Rodney and only once in that long advance did he fail to make a gain. Past the enemy’s forty-five yards went the Green-and-Gray, Stacey trying every trick in his budget and making most of them tell against a team now largely made up of second-string players. Not that Bursley gave way easily, for she didn’t. She fought hard, and, once behind her forty yards, showed renewed resistance and on three plays the Green-and-Gray made but five yards. A forward pass got the rest, though, with an added yard for good measure and Maple Hill scented victory.

But time was going fast. On the thirty-one yards Fortune frowned. There was a mix-up of signals and Rodney, carrying the ball, found himself without interference. Before he could make headway he was pinned by relentless arms and borne back, fighting, for a three-yard loss. With seven to go on the third down Stacey again tried a forward pass and, although the left end received it, he was downed in his tracks for no gain. It seemed then to be a case of kick or nothing, but a try at goal, even if it succeeded, would still leave Maple Hill defeated. Stacey, hesitating a minute, called for kick formation, and Hunter, who was only an indifferent kicker, dropped back up the field. Stacey fell to one knee to take the pass and hold the ball for a placement. But when the pass came it was not to Stacey but to Rodney, a yard away on his left.

“Fake! Fake!” shrieked Bursley.

But Rodney, with the entire left wing of the Maple Hill team trailing along between him and the enemy, was racing across the gridiron. His chance came at last, some fifteen yards from the side of the field, and he turned squarely and shot in. There was no hesitation this time. For an instant it seemed that he was racing straight into the arms of the enemy, but Kitty hurled himself forward, there was a confused mass of falling bodies and Rodney sprang across and was free for the instant. But the Bursley quarter was awaiting him and Bursley foemen were in pursuit. His interference now had been outstripped and he was alone. The quarter feinted to the right, Rodney countered to the left, a hand grasped at his jacket and fell away as he spun the quarter, and then, with two red-stockinged players groping for holds, he tore across the last white line, stumbled, picked himself up and went on and, finally with two Bursley men dragging him down, subsided behind the nearer post!

When they pulled him to his feet, a little limp, but quite unhurt and quite ready to try it all over again, it was Guy Watson who threw his arms about him and hugged him, Watson with a face one great grin and eyes with tears in them!

“Kid, you’re a wonder!” said Watson. “You—you’re all right!”

After that it was all very confused. Rodney trotted back up the field and someone, he never remembered who, tried for goal and missed it badly. And then the teams lined up again and, after the first play, the final whistle blew and he was trying to make his way through the crowd that suddenly flooded the field. Hands seized him and arms lifted him aloft and he went swaying uncertainly about on the shoulders of three shrieking, happy youths whom he didn’t even know by sight. Once, as they passed the almost deserted south stand he caught sight of the twins, waving, laughing. One of them—he never knew whether it was Matty or May—blew him a kiss. Then he lost sight of them again. Cheers filled the air. Swaying unsteadily, following a line of other captured players, Rodney smiled happily. At last, he told himself, he was something more than just the Brother of a Hero!

THE END