Bob rushed out and greeted Judd before he reached the sidelines.

"Fine work, old man! You're a wonder! I knew you would be if they ever gave you a chance. Why, say, it was worth coming a hundred miles just to see those two plays! Shake hands, Buddy. You don't know how glad I am to see you. Hold on, what's this,—blood?"

"Yep," grinned Judd, gazing a bit ruefully at his right hand which was swollen and bleeding. "That big jumbo Gordon put his foot on it."

"Here, let me fix it for you." Bob hunted up some tape and bandages.

Judd sat down in the circle of football men. Coach Phillips had a kind word for every man. He praised Judd especially for his great work during the last two minutes of the first half. The rube's face glowed with pleasure. For the first time he was beginning to feel the college spirit and a great ambition surged up within him for Bartlett to win the game. But the word which gave him deepest satisfaction and fired him with determination came from Cateye.

"I'm proud of you, pal. Remember—you're fighting for Bartlett and for me!"

A tremendous roar swept across the field as the two teams trotted upon the gridiron for the beginning of the second half.

Judd was given another cheer by the Bartlett stands. He seemed totally oblivious of it all.

Benz shouted to him. "Rube, they're cheering you!"

"Are they?" was the rube's careless rejoinder.

The coach had told him to watch Gordon and Judd intended above all else to follow instructions closely.

Pennington kicked off. Judd watched the ball sail into the air; then realized, with a sudden start, that it was coming to him! He braced himself for the catch. Benz and Potts shot past him.

"Follow us!" they shouted.

The stands were yelling wildly. Judd dodged in behind his interference. He crossed three white chalked lines without trouble. Then the interference crumpled and went down in a heap. Judd saw a big, dark looking face come close to his own, and eager outstretched arms. Instinctively he stuck out his hand and the face vanished. But another and yet another figure loomed up ahead! Judd turned to the left hoping to escape, but he was struck by two tacklers, one from each side. He crawled to his feet with team-mates thumping him on the back, and looked about him. The ball was on Pennington's forty-five yard line. Judd had made a twenty-five yard run!

He had barely time to catch his breath. Neil was yelling signals and the next play came straight through his position. Judd strained every muscle, felt the opposing line give, and saw Benz shoot through for a six yard gain. A succession of plays gave Bartlett first down!

But Pennington was fighting desperately. Although Bartlett rushed the ball to the twenty yard line it went over on downs and Pennington punted out of danger.

The greater part of the quarter was very evenly contested. The ball changed hands many times, neither team being able to gain consistently. Judd's great defensive work, he seeming to be in the heart of every play, helped wonderfully toward breaking the backbone of the Pennington offense.

In the latter part of the quarter, with the ball in Bartlett's possession on the fifty yard line, Benz negotiated a pretty twenty yard run around the left end of the line. While making a sharp turn to avoid a tackle, however, Benz sprained his right ankle. Time was taken out and the ankle bandaged up.

This was a serious blow to the team as Benz had been called into service extensively to punt Bartlett out of danger. He also had been the best ground gainer. The team was again disheartened as they changed goals prior to the playing of the last quarter.

Judd sensed the drooping spirits of his teammates and called out encouragingly: "Never mind that, pals. Let's die fightin'. We're not whipped yet!"

Pole and Potts, right end and tackle, respectively, were both badly bruised and exhausted, but game to the core. Benz was staying in the line-up though he could scarcely stand. Left tackle, Oole, playing next to Judd, had done nothing for the last five minutes, but fill the gap at his position. The rube had been doing the work of two men most of the quarter. The score still stood, Pennington, 13; Bartlett, 0.

The last quarter opened with Harriett's ball on Pennington's thirty yard line. Now that Benz was practically laid out, Neil called upon Patterson and Gary to do the bulk of the work in carrying the ball. Bartlett made a slow but steady advance. Neil, finding that Judd opened big holes on every play, sent most of his plays through that side of the line. Benz limped along, helping what he could as interference.

The stands were quieter now. The great game was three-quarters over. Bartlett had put up a wonderful fight against a much better team, and lost. The Penningtonites were just toying with them now, playing a defensive game.

But, what's this? The stands came to life with a jump and a howl! Neil, quarterback, had taken the ball and dodged through a hole in the line made by Judd. He passed by his interference and the Pennington linemen. As he did this and entered the open field, Gordon, fullback, rushed in and made a clean tackle, hitting Neil so hard that the ball was knocked completely out of his grasp. Judd, who was following up on the play, saw the ball bound away and was after it. Instead of falling upon it he scooped it up and, although tackled by two men, he dragged them the remaining five yards for a touchdown!

"Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rube! Rube! Rube!" boomed the
Bartlett rooters.

"Bully work, Rube!" shouted Benz. "Say,—did you ever try kicking goals? My ankle's no good,—"

"Well,—I reckon I can if I have to."

Benz held the ball. Judd poised it to his liking. He seemed
unconscious of the tremendous ovation the stands were giving him.
Plunk! The ball whizzed over the goal posts! Score, Pennington, 13;
Bartlett, 7.

"Say!" gasped Neil, weakly. "Take me out! I'm all in!"

The heavy tackle by Gordon had shaken him up badly. Potts and Judd helped Neil to the sidelines.

"Rip 'em up gang! We'll trim 'em yet!" were his parting words.

McCabe, substitute quarter, alive with pep and joy at his chance, jumped in at Neil's place and helped revive the gathering spirits of the team, exhorting every man to do his utmost.

Judd kicked off to Pennington. McCabe, inspired by his first chance, shot off down the field like a flash, eluding the advance guard, and downing the Pennington runner single handed, on his thirty yard line.

Bartlett was now fully alive and fighting hard but Pennington was battling just as stubbornly. Pennington made her first down largely due to the work of Gordon who went through the right side of the line, three successive times, for big gains. Pole and Potts had been giving their last ounce of strength to prevent the Pennington line from breaking through, but to no avail.

A halt was called in the game and two other Bartlett subs, Thorpe and
Preston, got their chances.

Now Pennington shifted her attack to the other side of the line and Judd, almost worn out, was called upon to give all the power he had to stop further gaining.

Knapp slipped away for another long run. The ball was on Bartlett's fifteen yard line and eight minutes left to play.

A fresh man was now sent in to oppose Judd, and Pennington's determined drive toward the goal resumed. Judd had eyes only for Gordon. He dropped the big fellow twice as he tore through the line. An attempted forward pass failed. Gordon charged through the line for three yards, but this was not enough. The ball went over to Bartlett on her nine yard line.

Benz limped up, and grasping Judd by the arm, shouted in his ear: "I'll switch positions with you. You drop back and punt that ball out of danger! Punt it hard!"

"But I've never punted in a real game!" protested Judd.

"Never mind that! You're the only man that can do it. Quick. Time's almost up!"

Judd needed no further urging. He took Benz's position.

"Hold that line, fellows!" he begged, as he held out his big hands for the ball.

"Get through and block that punt!" screamed Knapp.

The ball snapped back. The pass came high and Judd was forced to jump for it. He saw a form lurch before him and a pair of hands go up. Then he kicked. His right toe caught the ball squarely and drove it high and far down the field. When it finally fell, McCabe and Thorpe were waiting for the man to receive it and downed him where he stood.

Everyone in the Bartlett stands had risen to their feet. Such playing, such a reversal in form, had never before been seen! Judd's punt had carried sixty yards! The ball was Pennington's on their thirty-one yard line and four minutes left to play!

Pennington made a desperate attempt to gain but Bartlett was growing stronger every second in her effort to recover the ball. Even Gordon's line plunges were repulsed.

Now the Pennington coach relied on strategy to keep the Bartlett eleven from threatening the Red and Blue goal line in the short time left. He sent in a substitute for the left end who advised Knapp to call for a punt. This Knapp prepared to do; Melvin, Pennington punter, dropping back to make the kick.

Benz saw the action with sinking heart. A long punt now with two minutes left to play meant sure defeat for Bartlett, and while they were within striking distance he felt a fighting chance.

"Break up that punt, fellows!" he pleaded, "You've got to get through and block that punt or the game is lost!"

The Pennington line braced for what they felt, the final effort. Judd, fairly outdoing himself, flung guard and tackle aside and fell through. McCabe jumped over his prostrate body and leaped in front of the kicker. The ball struck him full in the face and bounded over his head to the forty yard line. Benz fell on it, joyfully.

McCabe, blinking dazedly from the blow, marshalled his battered forces for the last supreme attempt. Patterson made five yards on an end run. McCabe had his men up on their feet and into the game immediately after the play.

There was no time to be lost!

McCabe had been especially drilled in trick plays as Coach Phillips imagined if he were used at all it would be toward the end of the game. He now worked the first one, a double pass behind the line, Benz hurling the ball to Gary who shot around left end for fifteen yards.

The great crowd had gone mad by this time! Timekeepers began consulting their watches. Pennington stands entreated their eleven to "Hold 'em" while the Bartlett rooters shrieked, "Touchdown! Touchdown!"

With half a minute left to play McCabe relied on a great trick play to win. The crowd was making such a noise that he had to call his backs in to give them the signals. He repeated these signals twice to make sure that they were understood, despite each precious second of time. The ball was on Pennington's twenty yard line.

The success of the play depended largely upon Judd and Benz, and a complete deception of the opposing line. Benz had been hardly more than a mere figurehead in the last quarter and Pennington would not be expecting him to carry the ball.

McCabe shifted the right side of his line over. The ball was snapped back to Benz. Judd swung out of the line and raced across as interference. Oole filled the gap left by Judd with his body, and—before the Pennington line realized the trick Benz was well on his way toward the goal. The play took nerve, a great amount of nerve, on Benz's part. He forced himself to run swiftly, bearing his weight equally on his injured ankle.

"Catch hold of my belt!" cried Judd, as he lurched ahead of him. "I'll take you through!"

Benz placed his hand on Judd's broad back and strove to keep pace with him. He stumbled dizzily across two chalk marks and was vaguely aware of shaking off some tackler from behind. A few more steps. Everything was getting black! His hand pushed heavily against the lunging Judd, for support. Then, directly in front of Benz, danced the jeering face of Gordon! He felt Judd's body slide away from him—lost sight of Gordon. There was a dark, struggling mound at his feet! He made a desperate jump and cleared it; fell forward upon his knees; crawled a few paces; then pitched over upon his face.

When Benz came to himself the great game was all history. A howling mob was upon the field dancing about a huge bonfire which dispelled the falling darkness. A few of his team-mates surrounded him.

"If it hadn't been for my sprained ankle, fellows," sobbed Benz, "I'd have made that touchdown. I,—I kept up as long as I could but,—but,—"

"What are you talking about, man? You made a touchdown!" yelled a
Bartlett enthusiast.

"Me! Made a touchdown?" Benz was recovering fast now.

"Sure! You crawled over the goal line on your knees!"

"Zowie!—and then?"

"Rube kicked goal."

"Great snakes, … WE WON!"

Benz was too overjoyed and excited to speak.

At last, "Come on, guys, tell me a little more details. This suspense is awful," he begged.

"Well," volunteered McCabe, "It was the prettiest play of the game. You and Rube got away to almost a clear field. You legged it along all right for ten yards, then you commenced to limp. Rube slowed up for you and Knapp struck you from behind. But somehow you shook him off and stumbled on. Gordon came tearing up and dove at you but Judd threw himself between and Gordon hit the ground like a ton of bricks. You jumped over the two of them and staggered on. My, but those were anxious seconds! At the three yard line you fell upon your knees and crawled the rest of the distance while three tacklers were beating it up to get you. Just as you reached the line all three seemed to hit you at once and knocked you forward. Then the whistle blew! When the referee untangled the mess and rolled you upon your back he found you froze to the ball, a foot over the line. Talk about a death grip—they had to pry that old pigskin loose! Say, Benz, after that,—you missed the biggest lot of noise that ever happened!"

"Tell me about Rube," pleaded Benz, "My touchdown only tied the score.
His kicked goal won the game!"

"Oh yes," went on McCabe, "You made your touchdown at the right side of the field. Time was allowed for the try at goal. Rube was forced to attempt the goal kick at a frightful angle. The crowd was making such a demonstration, some people even running on the field, that I don't see how he ever did it. I held the ball for him. He took his time, fixed it just so; then stepped back. He was cool as a cucumber. The Pennington bunch glowered at him from between their goal posts. Then when the play came the field got suddenly quiet. Everyone was standing up holding their breath as Rube booted the ball. It sailed up, scraped the goal post, just clearing the bar, and the game was ours! After that, … skyrockets!"

"Say! Where is Rube now?"

"Heaven knows! A second later the crowd pounced upon him like a tribe of Indians. I thought they'd tear him to pieces. They carried him off with them."

"The lucky stiff!" laughed Benz, but there was no malice in that remark now.

The students bearing Judd faced about in front of the crackling bonfire. Cries of "Speech! Speech!" came from Bartlett rooters.

Judd sat on their shoulders, blinking from the light of the fire and stage-struck at the sea of flickering, ghostly faces in front of him.

"Say something, quick!" whispered McCabe, who stood eyeing the rube, proudly. "I'd give a kingdom to be in your shoes now!"

"You can have my place for nothin'," offered Judd, generously.

The crowd quieted down and waited expectantly. The rube was so well known and such a favorite by this time.

Finally Judd calmed himself enough to face the ordeal. He raised his head and looked out over the crowd.

"Fellows, before I say anythin' more…" he started. But such a flood of laughter and cheering greeted these words that he could get no further.

"Gee!" complimented McCabe, "You've scored a touchdown from kick-off!"

Bob and Cateye came pushing their way through the crowd, supporting a limping Benz between them.

"Rube …!" started Benz, face beaming. "I … er … mean—Judd!"

Bartlett's hero of the hour grinned.

"No you don't Benz … you mean Rube. You couldn't really call me anything else and I wouldn't want you to. I reckon that name fits me best."

"All right, then!" conceded Benz, cuffing Judd playfully, "Though I claim I'm really the rube for calling you a rube!"

And then Cateye said something about the team's planning to make Judd next year's captain and Bob brought cheers by giving out that he was returning to college next fall.

"Gosh, that does me out of a room-mate," said Judd, suddenly, with a mischievous glance at his brother.

"Not necessarily," spoke up Benz, "What do you say, Rube, to … er … bunking with me?"

Benz and Judd—room-mates! This would astound the college.

"I've been known to talk in my sleep," Judd warned, grinning.

"Yell and see if I care!" accepted Benz.

And so, feuds ended, there came to one Judd Billings the tingling realization of what real college spirit meant. It had taken him all this while to get back in step after starting in college on the wrong foot. He had developed so very much in the past few years from a timid, awkward youth at Trumbull High who had fought so hard to live up to his brother Bob's contract—and later, as a Freshman at Bartlett, unused to the ways of the fellows but with his old-time fear conquered. But now Judd knew, happily, that he was one with all the fellows for a cheer was being proposed in honor of "Bartlett's Big Four"—Bob and Cateye and Benz and—Rube! And the ones who were responding to this cheer the loudest were his own team-mates!

*****

Produced by Al Haines

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