Harvard was about to meet Yale in the annual football game between the freshman teams. The streets were filled with pretty girls, and more pretty girls, with “sporty” chaps in mackinaws, in raglans—with all sorts of hats atop of their heads, and some without hats at all.

There had been the last secret final practice on Yale Field the day before. That night the Harvard team and its followers had arrived, putting up at Hotel Taft.

Andy, in common with other candidates for the team, was sitting quietly in his room, for Holwell, the coach, had forbidden any liveliness the night before the game. And Andy had a chance to play.

True, it was but a bare chance, but it was worth saving. He had played brilliantly on the scrub team for some time, and had been named as a possible substitute. If several backs ahead of him were knocked out, or slumped at the last moment, Andy would go in. And, without in the least wishing misfortune to a fellow student, how Andy did wish he could play!

There came a knock at the door—a timid, hesitating sort of knock.

“Oh, hang it! If that’s Ikey, trying to sell me a blue sweater, I’ll throw him down stairs!” growled Andy. He was nervous.

“Come in!” called Dunk, laughing.

“Is Andy Blair——Oh, hello, there you are, old man!” cried a voice and Chet Anderson thrust his head into the room.

“Well, you old rosebud!” yelled Andy, leaping out of the easy chair with such energy that the bit of furniture slid almost into the big fireplace. “Where’d you blow in from?”

“I came with the Harvard bunch. I told you I’d see you here.”

“I know, but I didn’t expect to see you until the game. You’re not going to play?”

“No—worse luck! Wish I was. Hear you may be picked.”

“There’s a chance, that’s all.”

“Oh, well, we’ll lick you anyhow!”

“Yes, you will, you old tomcat!” and the two clasped hands warmly, and looked deep into each other’s eyes.

“Oh!” exclaimed Andy. “I forgot. Chet, this is my chum, Duncan Chamber—Dunk for short. Dunk—Chet Anderson. I went to Milton with him.”

The two shook hands, and Chet sat down, he and Andy at once exchanging a fund of talk, with Dunk now and then getting in a word.

“Did you come on with the team?” asked Andy.

“Yes, and it’s some little team, too, let me tell you!”

“Glad to hear it!” laughed Andy. “Yale doesn’t like to punch a bag of mush!”

“Oh, you won’t find any mush in Harvard. Say, have you heard from Ben?”

“Yes, saw him at the Princeton game.”

“How was he?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“That’s good. Then he likes it down there?”

“Yes. He’s going in for baseball. Hopes to pitch on the freshman team, but I don’t know.”

“You didn’t play against the Tiger?”

“No, there wasn’t any need of me. Yale had it all her own way.”

“She won’t to-morrow.”

“Wait and see.”

Thus they talked until Chet, knowing that Andy must want to get rest, in preparation for the gridiron battle, took his leave, promising to see his friend again.

The stands were a mass of color—blue like the sky on one side of Yale Field, and red like a sunset on the other. The cheering cohorts, under the leadership of the various cheer leaders, boomed out their voices of defiance.

Out trotted the Yale team and substitutes, of whom Andy was one. Instantly the blue of the sky seemed to multiply itself as a roar shook the sloping seats—the seats that ran down to the edge of green field, marked off in lines of white.

“Come on now, lively!” yelled the coaches, hardly making their voices heard above the frantic cheers.

The players lined up and went through some rapid passes and kicking. Andy and the other substitutes took their places on the bench, enveloped in blankets and their blue sweaters.

Then a roar and a smudge of crimson, that flashed out from the other side of the field, told of the approach of the Harvard team.

“Harvard! Harvard! Harvard!”

It was an acclaim of welcome.

Andy watched Yale’s opponents go through their snappy practice.

“They’re big and beefy,” he murmured, “but we can do ’em. We’ve got to! Yale has got to win!”

The captains consulted, the coin was flipped, and Harvard was to kick off. The teams gathered in a knot at either end of the field for a last consultation. Then the new ball was put in the center of the field.

Andy found difficulty in getting his breath, and he noticed that the other players beside him had the same trouble.

The whistle shrilled out, and the Harvard back, running, sent the yellow pigskin sailing well down the field. A wild yell greeted his performance. One of the Yale players caught it and his interference formed before him. But he had not run it back ten yards before he was tackled. Now would come the first line-up, and it would be seen how Yale could buck the crimson.

“Signal!” Andy could hear their quarterback yell, and then the rest was swallowed up in a hum of excitement in the songs and cheers with which the students sought to urge on the defenders of the blue.

There was a vicious plunge into the line, but the gain was small.

“They’s holding us!” murmured Blake, at Andy’s side.

“Oh, it’s early yet,” answered Andy. He wondered why his hands pained him, and, looking at them found that he had been clenching them until the nails had made deep impressions in his palms.

Again came a plunging, smashing attack at Harvard’s line, and a groan from the Yale substitutes followed. The Yale back had been thrown for a loss.

“We’ve got to kick now,” murmured Andy, and the signal came.

Then it was the Yale ends showed their fleetness and they nailed the Harvard man before he had gained much. An exchange of punts followed, both teams having good kickers that year.

Then came more line smashing, in which Yale gained a little. It was a fiercely fought game, so fierce that before five minutes of play Harvard had to take one man out, and Yale lost two, from injuries that could not be patched up on the field.

“I’ve got a chance! I’ve got a chance!” exulted Andy.

But it was not rejoicing at the other fellows’ misfortunes. Unless you have played football you can not understand Andy’s real feelings.

The first quarter ended with neither side making a score, and there was a consultation on both teams during the little breathing spell.

“We’ve got to do more line plunging,” thought Andy, and he was right, for Yale began that sort of a game when the whistle blew again. The wisdom of it was apparent, for at once the ball began to go down toward Harvard’s goal, once Yale got possession of the pigskin after an exchange of kicks.

“That’s the way! That’s the way!” yelled Andy. “Touchdown! Touchdown!”

This was being yelled all over the Yale stands. But it was not to be. After some magnificent playing, and bucking that tore the Harvard line apart again and again, time for the half was called, Yale having the ball on Harvard’s eight-yard line. Another play might have taken it over.

But both teams had been forced to call on more substitutes, and Harvard lost her best punter. Yale suffered, too, in the withdrawal of Michaels, a star end.

The third quarter had not been long under way when, following a scrimmage, a knot of Yale players gathered about a prostrate figure.

“Who is it? Who is it?” was asked on all sides.

“Brooks—right half!” was the despondent answer. “This cooks our goose!”

“Blair—Blair!” cried the coach. “Get in there! Rip ’em up!”

A mist swam before Andy’s eyes. Some one fairly pulled him from the bench, and his sweater was ripped off him, one sleeve tearing out. But what did it matter—he had a chance to play!

“We’ve got to buck their line!” the freshman captain whispered in his ear. “They’re weak there, and we dare not kick too much. Our ends can’t get down fast enough. I’m going to send you through for all you’re worth.”

“All right!” gasped Andy. His mouth was dry—his throat parched.

“Steady there! Steady!” warned the coach.

“Ready, Yale?” asked the referee.

“Yes!”

Again the whistle blew. Yale had the ball, and on the first play Andy was sent bucking the line with it. He hit it hard, and felt himself being pushed and pulled through. Some one seemed in his way, and then a body gave suddenly and limply, and he lurched forward.

“First down!” he heard some one yell. He had gained the required distance. Yale would not have to kick.

Panting, trembling, with a wild, eager rage to again get into the fight, Andy waited for the signal. A forward pass was to be tried. He was glad he was not to buck the line again.

The pass was not completed, and the ball was brought back. Again came a play—a double pass that netted a little. Yale was slowly gaining.

But now Harvard took a brace and held for downs so that Yale had to kick. Then the Crimson took her turn at rushing the ball down the field by a series of desperate plunges. Yale’s goal was in danger when the saving whistle for the third quarter shrilled out.

“Fellows, we’ve got to get ’em now or never!” cried the Yale captain, fiercely. “Break your necks—but get a touchdown!”

Once more the line-up. Andy’s ears were ringing. He could scarcely hear the signals for the cheering from the stands. He was called upon to smash through the line, and did manage to make a small gain. But it was not enough. It was the second down. The other back was called on, and went through after good interference, making the necessary gain.

“We’ve got ’em on the run!” exulted Yale.

The blue team was within striking distance of the Harvard goal. The signal came for a kick in an attempt to send the ball over the crossbar.

How it happened no one could say. It was one of the fumbles that so often occur in a football game—fumbles that spell victory for one team and defeat for another. The Yale full-back reached out his hands for the pigskin, caught it and—dropped it. There was a rush of men toward him, and some one’s foot kicked the ball. It rolled toward Andy. In a flash he had it tucked under his arm, and started in a wild dash for the Harvard goal line.

“Get him! Get that man!”

“Smear him!”

“Interference! Interference! Get after him!”

“It’s Blair! Andy Blair!”

“Yale’s ball!”

“Go on, you beggar! Run! Run!”

“Touchdown! Touchdown!”

There was a wild riot of yells. With his ears ringing as with the jangle of a thousand bells, with his lungs nearly bursting, and his eyes scarcely seeing, Andy ran on.

He had ten yards to go—thirty feet—and between him and the goal was the Harvard full-back—a big youth. Andy heard stamping feet behind him. They were those of friends and foes, but no friends could help him now.

Straight at the Harvard back he ran—panting, desperate. The Crimson player crouched, waiting for him. Andy dodged. He was midway between the side lines. He circled. The Harvard back turned and raced after him, intent on driving him out of bounds. That was what Andy did not want, but he did want to wind his opponent. Again Andy circled and dodged. The other followed his every move.

Then Andy came straight at him again, with outstretched hand to ward him off. There was a clash of bodies, and Andy felt himself encircled in a fatal embrace. He hurled himself forward, for he could see the goal line beneath his feet. Over he went, bearing the Harvard player backward, and, when they fell with a crash, Andy reached out, his arms over his head, and planted the ball beyond the goal line. He had made the winning touchdown!