.

"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 seein