To Sumner more than to any one else of the Westcott School was due the fine spirit of caution and determination with which the eleven faced the momentous game with Trowbridge. He had not slackened for a moment his devotion to the team from which, according to Stover, he had been ignominiously fired. He had watched the Trowbridge-Newbury contest with a sharp eye and an open note-book. The newspapers remarked after the game that Trowbridge had gained on end runs and tackle plays and lost on kicks; and that Ricker, the Trowbridge back, was the star of the game. Sumner had not been content with any such general impressions. He had observed how the plays were started behind the line, what holes were relied on for emergencies, who was most likely to fumble punts, and in precisely what way Ricker’s interference formed and hit the line. During the last week of practice, his second team was an imitation Trowbridge, with Trowbridge end runs and genuine Ricker dashes. The Ricker of the Westcott second was alumnus Bill Ellery, Harvard junior, who could cover the two-twenty in twenty-three, and started like a deer. Two active old Westcottites from across the Charles personated Trowbridge tackles, and another guarded right end. Yards practiced his linesmen in breaking straight through, with a spring and a dart and a slap of the open hand against the opponent’s headguard; he forced them to make gripping tackles on the slippery dummy; he taught them how to master, not to kill, the men in front of them; he furnished practicable plays adapted to the powers of the team, and drilled the players in signals until obedience was automatic—but it was Sumner who prepared them for Ricker and the deceptive end runs.

“This last week’s work has been the best of all,” said Yards, the evening before the game. “If Pete’s knee holds out, we ought to be able to put up a pretty good offence, and Sumner’s second has developed our defence wonderfully.”

“And he won’t even make his W!” lamented Harrison.

“No, he won’t!” answered Yards, who could afford to be outspoken now that the end of the season was at hand. “On every point of the game McDowell is better.”

“Then you don’t think there’s any chance for Jack to get in?” asked Harrison, wistfully.

Yards shook his head. “Not unless Mac is laid out or we get a big lead.”

Harrison smiled feebly at the sarcasm of this last suggestion. There was about as much chance of getting a big lead on Trowbridge as that Mac would make half a dozen goals from the field or that Bumpus would find big Hubbard an easy victim; while it was quite within the range of probability that Pete would injure his knee again and deprive the team of its only good punter, or that some accident would befall Eaton or Hardie or some other strong player whose place no one could fill. Subconsciously he shared the view prevalent in school that Trowbridge was likely to win, though he did not admit the possibility even to himself. He had never wholly approved the system of open defence which Yards had adopted from the Harvard theorists. To one used to a solid line of bodies before the ball it seemed a reckless scheme to pull the centre out of his place and put him behind the line, thus leaving open, in the wall of defence, an avenue wide enough for a cart. He could see that this method of resistance strengthened the wings, through which the longest gains are made, and rendered it possible to keep two backs in reserve for on-side kicks and forward passes; but would not this open highway through centre furnish an easy route for heavy plunges? Yards maintained that if Ford and the guards would but watch the play carefully, the gains through centre could be made unprofitably small; yet Harrison’s doubts, though unuttered, were none the less real.

Roger Hardie’s heart was beating quick with eagerness to get into the play, when Talbot opened the game by sending the ball spinning down to the lower corner of the field. Cowles took it on the bounce, and had worked it back fifteen yards before he ran into Eaton’s arms. Through the centre highway Ricker pushed for five yards before Ford and Talbot reached him and brought him down. Another assault at the same place gave a first down. The open defence was showing its weak side. Then they sought a hole outside Bumpus, but Bumpus got free and threw the runner into Talbot’s hands. Another dash at centre yielded two yards, and with five to gain Cowles punted. Mac took the ball safely on his thirty-yard line, and sent Horr twice against the Trowbridge right flank behind Eaton and Hardie, each time gaining five yards; and Bradford once just inside Harrison, who, tugging with Tracy and supported by Talbot behind, dragged the runner eight yards before the Trowbridge men pulled him down. A tandem through right guard yielded a first down. After that an end run was blocked with the loss of a yard through the quickness of the Trowbridge tackle, and Mac decided to kick.

Pete’s punt, which was got off so quickly that the defence was hardly ready for it, went diagonally down the field, and, by rolling out at the Trowbridge thirty-yard line, prevented any running back. Trowbridge tried an end run from a fake kick, but Harrison was not deceived, and threw the runner behind the line. Then recourse was had to punting once more, but the back was slow in getting off his kick, and Bumpus, who had slapped his way through the line and leaped wildly in the air in the path of the ball, took it on his chest and beat it down to the ground. Three men threw themselves at it as it struck, and buried it deep under struggling brown bodies; but the one who lay closest to it, hugging it ecstatically in his arms, proved to be the Westcott left end.

The wave of the referee’s hand which moved the measurers down was the signal for shrill whoops from the excited band of youngsters in the Westcott cheering section. Sumner on the side-lines flung his arms about the coach in a transport of delight.

“Our ball on the fifteen-yard line!” he cried jubilantly. “We’ve got ’em now!”

“Don’t be too sure,” answered Yards, who, though just as eager, had himself under better control. “It’s a hard fifteen yards to cover.”

The players were in position now, nerved for the great struggle. Behind their forwards, the Trowbridge backs stood in a line of three. Each linesman recognized that the success or failure of the next play might depend on the quickness with which he leaped. The signal which rang out in Mac’s clear, sharp voice called for a tandem play between left tackle and guard, with Talbot carrying the ball. Eaton, straining to get the jump on his antagonist, moved before the ball, and was off side. The umpire blew his horn; the referee counted back five yards; the lines formed again.

“O dear!” groaned Sumner. “What’ll he do now?—I believe he’s going to try a drop!”

“It’s a fake,” said Yards, composedly. “He’d try another down if he meant to do that.”

McDowell was back holding out his hands, the backs had taken the formation for interference. Ford passed, but it was Talbot who received the ball and made a short, quick kick over the right side of the line. Harrison charged after it with all his speed, but Ricker beat him in the sprint, took the ball on the bounce, and ran round the Westcott captain for a gain of fifteen yards before Talbot forced him out of bounds.

From his chagrin at this failure Sumner was aroused by a loud chuckle of mirth close behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes met the exultant gaze of President John.

“Wasted his chance,” remarked the dignitary, with an oily grin of recognition. “I’m afraid he won’t get another.” Sumner nodded and moved down the line.

And now the Trowbridge men, taking courage from their escape, began to put new life into their play. Ricker shot through centre and squirmed forward ten yards. His second attempt was blocked by Ford and Channing after a short gain. Then a trick was sprung; the guards, tackles, and ends moved out suddenly six paces, leaving the centre all alone before the ball, with a great space on either side of him. The movement was supposed first to confuse the enemy, then to draw them out of position so as to leave a big hole near the centre, or to furnish a close interference for a run at end. But the Westcott rushers, having had experience with this very play as practiced by Sumner’s eleven, took it coolly as a matter of course, went through evenly along the line, and downed the dangerous Ricker before he got well under way. On the third down Trowbridge tried a forward pass on a crisscross formation, but Horr blocked off the end, and the ball, striking the ground, fell once more to Westcott’s. McDowell wasted a down in a fruitless effort to push Bradford through centre, and Horr fumbled. Trowbridge made seven yards and kicked, Talbot punted back, and for ten minutes the play oscillated between the thirty-yard lines.

At last—it seemed to Sumner that the half must be nearly at an end—a rash attempt on the part of Trowbridge to gain four yards after a third down gave Westcott’s the ball fifty yards from their opponents’ goal. Mac, who had by this time “sized up” the Trowbridge defence, now ceased experimenting, and applied his whole mental power to the task of matching the strong points of his team against the weaknesses of the foe. On the defence, Trowbridge played the centre in the line, with but a single line half-back. The Westcott quarter brought his end over, and drove his backs outside tackle and outside end, now on the short side, now on the long, gaining satisfactory distances at each stroke. Presently a second Trowbridge back came up to support the line, leaving the back-field clear. Mac recognized this opportunity for a forward pass, and seized it. Pete’s long spiral throw fell into Eaton’s hands on the enemy’s twenty-yard line. It was a close shave, for Cowles was upon him as he leaped for the ball, but Eaton held it, though he was thrown hard. A crash through centre, a skin-tackle play, a split play on a delayed pass, and Westcott’s brought up at the third down on the Trowbridge thirteen-yard line with three yards to gain, the enemy’s linesmen on their knees, and their whole back-field pushed up to support them.

But two minutes remained. If the ball were lost now, the opportunity to score would go. Harrison shouted a signal from his end. McDowell nodded, and fell back to a kicking position, giving his signals clearly as he went.

“Look out for an on-side kick!” yelled the Trowbridge captain. “Get through on them now!”

While he spoke, the ball went back. The line in the centre swerved, but held; the Trowbridge ends, followed by the tackles, swooped down upon the waiting quarter, but the Westcott backs blocked them off from the danger zone. Mac got his drop away safely, and, holding his breath, watched the ball floating upward beyond the reach of human hands. It crossed the bar three feet inside the post.

The play during the rest of the half was comprehended in two kicks. Trowbridge sent the ball on the kick-off deep into Westcott territory; and Talbot on the first down punted it far back.

Sumner, dancing with joy round Mike and the water pail, found himself again in the presence of the lord of the league.

“What about that chance that wasn’t coming?” he asked, with a sudden accession of friendliness.

“The game isn’t over,” answered President John, sourly. “A single touch-down will wipe that gain out.”

At the dressing rooms the usual discussion of the developments of the game was going forward. The bedraggled players, their mud-streaked faces aglow with hope, lay stretched on the floor about the coach, listening eagerly to his last directions. In one corner, Duane, of the Harvard Second, was explaining to Bumpus how, by proper use of his knee, he could hold Hubbard on the offence at least a second longer. Yards, having finished his general exhortation, drew McDowell aside to talk over with him the strategy of the second half, which was, in brief, to play safely, keep the ball in opponents’ territory, and watch for chances.

“If we hold them well, you’ll put in Sumner at the last, won’t you?” Mac asked.

“Not with the score three to nothing,” answered Yards, quickly.

“If we should make a touch-down, then?” persisted Mac.

The coach hesitated a moment before replying, but when he spoke, there was no uncertainty in his words. “It wouldn’t be safe. Sumner is a good fellow, and he’s worked hard for the team, but we’re playing the game to win, not to give good fellows a chance to make their W’s. I sha’n’t take any risks.”

The Westcott players trotted forth at the call, determined to make at the outset such a show of power and dash as would put Trowbridge immediately on the defensive. The Trowbridge rushers strung out across the field on a line with the ball. Westcott’s took the usual defensive positions, the centre ten yards back from the ball, the guards flanking him, but behind, the tackles outside the guards and still farther back. Cowles ran forward for his kick-off, but instead of driving the ball to the limit of his powers down the field, he sent it with a little stab of his foot diagonally across toward the side-line. It struck the line outside the Westcott left guard. Bumpus, perplexed at the unexpected play, hesitated a moment before he leaped for the ball. His hesitation cost his side dear, for two Trowbridge rushers crashed into him before he had taken three steps, and the Trowbridge end flung himself on the ball just ahead of Eaton, who pounced upon him like a wild beast upon his prey. Trowbridge had gained the ball on Westcott’s forty-yard line!

Sumner’s heart was like lead, as he saw the Trowbridge line open in wide gaps for a trick play. If the Westcott rushers lost their heads now, there was no hope for the team. But a line that sifts evenly through, with each man keeping well within his own territory, is a hard line to work tricks upon; and a strong, aggressive tackle is a dangerous obstacle to end plays. The Westcott line did sift evenly through, and Eaton was a good tackle—so good, indeed, that he burst straight into the Trowbridge interference, and, hooking the runner with a long reach, swung him directly into Hardie’s arms. The next play, which was directed at the open centre, was spoiled by Bumpus, who burned to retrieve himself, before it had advanced three yards. Then, with six yards to gain, Cowles drew back for a kick.

“Fake!” shouted Harrison. “Look out for a forward pass!”

His warning proved false; it served only to check his own line, and give Cowles a better opportunity to get off his kick. He punted high and with such splendid accuracy that the ball fell at the Westcott six-yard line. McDowell stood under it as it came down, holding his hand high aloft and claiming the privilege of a fair catch. All about him thronged the menacing Trowbridge forwards, ready to seize the ball and carry it across the line should Mac fail to hold it.

“I’m glad I’m not there!” thought the anxious Sumner. “I’d fumble it sure! If it should slip out of his hands, now—”

But it didn’t. As calmly as if he were in mid field with no one near to disturb him, Mac gathered in the descending ball and heeled his mark. Twenty seconds later Pete’s long punt rolled out at the Westcott forty-five-yard line.

Again Westcott’s held Trowbridge to a seven-yards gain in two downs, and Trowbridge, as a last resort, tried a complicated forward pass; but Tracy worked through on the end who had come round to make the pass, and threw him before he could complete it. Now, for the first time during the half, the Westcott lads took the offence, though Mac still preferred to rely on Talbot’s foot. Down sailed the ball to the Trowbridge twenty-yard line, only to be kicked back beyond the centre of the field a few minutes later. Here for some minutes the play wavered within the neutral zone. On the exchange of punts there was little advantage except that gained by

Hardie and Harrison as they dodged down the field under the kicks, and nailed the receiver of the ball at his first step; but on the rushes Westcott’s covered more ground, and the play gradually drew near the Trowbridge end of the field.

A series of successful line plunges had brought the Westcott offence to the Trowbridge twenty-yard line, when the referee announced at the third down that four yards of the necessary ten were still lacking. Mac conferred with Harrison, and, falling back to the kicking position, knelt at Talbot’s side. The quarter caught Ford’s pass, but instead of placing the ball for a kick, he waited until the Trowbridge men were sweeping down upon him, when he passed to Talbot, who threw the ball in a long spiral that bored its way through the air far over the left side of the line. Hardie was ready to receive it, and so was Ricker. They came together with a shock, but Ricker was short and Roger tall, and the Westcott man clutched the ball over his rival’s head, as the latter tumbled him to the ground. The eight yards to the goal line Pete covered in two downs.

Sumner did not see the goal kicked; he was coasting along the side-lines in search of his friend Smith. He found him at last, just as the elevens were changing ends, standing alone near the corner of the field.

“Great game, sir!” offered Sumner, politely.

“I call it a very poor game,” answered President John, staring straight before him. “That Trowbridge line is rotten.”

“It’s hard to understand how they could beat Newbury seventeen to three,” remarked Sumner, cheerfully. “About time enough left for another touch-down, isn’t there?”

Smith made no reply to this question, unless a scowl and an unintelligible exclamation could be construed as a reply. But even thus Sumner seemed to consider the conversation worth while, for as he hurried back to the side of the Westcott coach, he was bubbling with glee.

With the score nine to nothing and the game nearly over, there seemed no serious doubt as to the outcome. So thought Mac, at least, when Harrison recovered the ball on a fumble near his fifty-yard line, and Pete punted down close to the Trowbridge goal. It was high time that Sumner should appear if he was to be sent into the game at all, but Yards made no move to send him. Mac considered the matter at intervals, while he stood far back waiting for his friends in the line to gain possession of the ball. The result of his consideration was to arouse in his mind the suspicion that Yards was working, not for a safe victory, but for a score which would leave no doubt as to the success of his coaching.

“Jack deserves a chance, and he is going to get it!” muttered Mac to himself. “If it can’t come one way, it shall another.”

The Westcott defence had just thrown back another attempt at a skin-tackle play, and Harrison signalled to his quarter to be ready for a kick. Mac was under the ball when it came down, and slipping by the end, zigzagged a dozen yards up the field before he succumbed to two hard Trowbridge tacklers. Ford came puffing back and took the ball from his hand; but Mac, instead of scrambling to his feet and calling out his signals as the team gathered, remained squirming on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” asked Harrison, anxiously, as he knelt beside him.

“My right ankle!” groaned Mac, twisting his face into an expression of frightful pain.

Time was called; Mike appeared with his water pail and sponge, closely followed by Yards. Together they rubbed the injured joint, while Mac writhed and moaned.

“How much time is left?” he asked.

“Three minutes.”

“I’ll see if I can stand.”

Yards and Harrison lifted the sufferer to his feet. He took a step with his right foot, rested his weight on it,—and went down in a heap.

“Do you think it’s broken?” asked the coach in alarm.

“I guess not,” replied Mac, transforming a grin into a grimace, “but you’ll have to send Jack in.”

Yards called for Sumner, and the maimed quarter went hobbling off the field, supported by Yards and Louis Tracy, and saluted by a booming salvo from the graduates, and an impassioned cheer from the schoolboy section. Yards proposed to send him directly to the dressing rooms and call in a physician, but Mac pleaded piteously to be allowed to see the game out. So he stood at the side-lines, leaning on Louis’s shoulder.

“We should have made another touch-down if you hadn’t got hurt,” said the coach, in a resentful tone, as Horr at the first signal was pushed through outside Ben Tracy for a gain of five yards. “We had ’em on the run.”

“Jack will do just as well,” answered Mac, calmly. “He’s better on the offence than I am.”

In truth, Sumner had the advantage over Mac in some respects. He was heavier, he got into the plays better, and he profited by his close study of the game from the side-lines. The team reacted to a fresh voice, while Sumner’s strength, applied at the critical instant, helped to break the resistance and roll the wedge along. Outside guard, outside tackle, around the end, changing his attack from side to side, Sumner pushed his backs to a first down, to another, to a third. Then, when the Trowbridge secondary defence concentrated close behind the line, he worked a forward pass himself, running backward to make sure of his throw, and delivering the ball safely into Tracy’s hands. Westcott’s was on the Trowbridge ten-yard line, pressing hotly forward, when the referee’s whistle put an end to the game.

Mac lingered on the side-lines, waiting for an opportunity to congratulate Sumner on his playing. As they walked together to the dressing rooms, escorted by a half-dozen admiring youngsters, the injured quarter forgot to limp. Close by the entrance Yards accosted them.

“You ran the team finely, Sumner,” he exclaimed, with radiant face. Then, suddenly recalling Mac’s misfortune, he turned upon him and demanded, “How’s that ankle?”

“It seems all right now,” replied Mac, with an abrupt lapse from his gayety.

Yards gave him a sharp glance, and his eyes darkened ominously. “I believe you—” he began, but the beseeching look on Mac’s face checked him. “I’m glad it’s no worse,” he finished lamely.