machine that to-day received its final
"exam."

Ted Robertson, the man around whom most of the team's offense was built,
sat listening to Dawson's advice. Born with a fiery, almost unmanageable
temper, his reckless, dauntless spirit had made him a terror to opposing
teams. Strong was the line that could check his plunges, and fleet were
the ends who could tackle him when once he got loose in an open field.
Recognizing his phenomenal ability, both coach and players gave him the
credit due him and consciously or unconsciously relied on him as the
team's best player.

But to-day Sloan had declared that they were going to put Robertson out
of the game and threats had been freely uttered that before the game had
been going very long he "would be in the hospital." This news added to
the tenseness of feeling. If Robertson should be put out of the game, or
if he should lose his temper the chances of a victory for Bliss were
slim indeed, for rarely had two teams been so evenly matched in skill
and brain and brawn. Thus the final pleading of Dawson to Robertson to
"hold that temper."

A roar of cheers greeted their ears as the red jerseyed Sloan team took
the field. Led by Murray the Bliss players were likewise greeted by a
storm of applause as they trotted out on the field and the varsity
started through a brisk signal drill.

In a few minutes the referee called the rival captains to the center of
the field. Sloan won the toss and elected to defend the south goal,
kicking off with the wind behind its back. A breathless hush--the shrill
whistle of the referee--the thump of cleated shoe against the ball and
the game was on.

The teams, wonderfully even in strength and in knowledge of the game,
surged back and forth, the ball repeatedly changing hands as one team
would hold the other for downs. From the kick-off, the Sloan players
began their attempts to injure or anger Robertson. Vicious remarks were
aimed at him while the referee was not near enough to hear.

When Robertson carried the ball and after he was downed under a mass of
players, a fist would thud against his jaw or hard knuckles would be
rubbed across his nose. Once when an opposing player had fallen across
Robertson's right leg, another of his opponents seized his ankle and
turned it. Though he fought against it, his temper was slowly but surely
slipping away from him.

For three hectic quarters, with the tide of victory or defeat now
surging towards Bliss--no