five minutes of play
meant most to the cardinal. In that dozen rushes, they could tell
whether there was a chance of winning or whether the hope of victory had
died with Blake. The first Berkeley play went at the line and crumpled
up without gain; again it held and again, until the crowd felt that
there was more than hope, that the Stanford stone-wall defense would win
out once more. Yet so closely were the teams matched that they swung
back and forth without score for a good half.

When the game was almost at the end of the second half, the score was
tie, 6-6. But Berkeley was sure of the day. She had forced her
adversaries to their five-yard line, and there were only six minutes
left to play. Stanford took a desperate brace and Berkeley lost the ball
on downs. If only Stanford could gain ground now, or if time could be
called. Nobody wanted a tie, to be sure, but defeat was hard to
accept,--the first time, too.

Diemann of Stanford crouched on the side-lines with a heart of lead. The
game was lost. What he had looked for, hoping against hope since play
was called, had not happened. Ashley had played his usual hard,
consistent game, straining every muscle, punting longer and higher than
ever before, but missing stupidly some golden chances, the chances Blake
would never have let slip by. Diemann had talked to him between halves,
a few eager words, urging him to quickness, reminding him of Fred. The
substitute had only shaken his head, and muttered that he was doing his
best. Toward the end of the second he had shown the severity of the
strain. Playing his hardest, with despair in his soul, it had told on
him. In the last scrimmages his work had been very ragged. Indeed, the
whole team seemed to have slumped, and the Berkeley line had hammered
them down toward their own goal while precious seconds slipped by.

Now the men lined up rapidly. Stanford tried an end play. No gain.
Diemann stood back of the team at one side of the goal; he was
struggling hard to be calm, but he did a strange thing. He seized a
small megaphone from the hands of an urchin beside him, and just as they
lined up after Stanford's unsuccessful trial at end, he stepped to the
white goal line and raising the funnel to his lips shouted in a voice
audible to every man on both teams:

"Now, Fred Blake, play your game!"

Lyman heard and looked back, wondering.

Ashley heard. He stared at the grandstand with a bewildered, appealing
face. Then the si