on relaxed a little,
giving place to the thrall of the game.

After all, why should he be so certain of the worst? Wasn't it quite as
likely that the fellows would be awakened and dominated, even stung
into unity, by the same thrill which moved him? An instant later he
lunged forward and was running swiftly, madly, his face upturned to the
yellow sphere soaring above his head and rocking gently in its swooping,
dropping flight.

When Ranny Phelps made a perfect catch and zigzagged down the field,
dodging the interference with consummate skill, the tenderfoot thrilled
responsive and mentally applauded. When the blond chap was at length
downed and the teams lined up snappily, Dale grinned delightedly to
himself at the realization of the fine beginning they had made.

But his enthusiasm was short-lived. Parker ripped out a signal, and the
ball was snapped back to Ward. Dale drove forward, bent on clearing the
way for Sherman. Beside him Ranny also lunged into the melee, but the
tenderfoot was instantly conscious of a gap between them that seemed as
wide as the poles apart. Into it the solid blue-jerseyed interference
thrust itself, and the forward rush stopped as if it had struck a stone
wall.

"First down!" shouted the referee when the heap of players disintegrated.
"Ten yards to gain!"

CHAPTER VII

IN THE LAST QUARTER

As Dale scrambled to his feet and sought his place again, his face
was flaming. He had a feeling that he must be partly to blame for the
failure. Perhaps he had been a bit too quick in his forward lunge. As
he crouched in the line, head low and shoulders bent, his hands clenched
themselves tightly. It mustn't happen again, he told himself.

But swiftly it was borne upon him that the blame did not lie on his
shoulders. A try around right end brought them barely a yard. Something
had gone wrong there, too. He could not tell just what it was, but it
seemed as if Slater and Torrance had failed somehow to back up Ted
MacIlvaine as they should have done. The tackle's teeth grated, and a
flood of impotent anger surged over him. They were playing as they had
played in practice, each fellow for himself, without even an effort to
get together and tighten up.

With the inevitable kick which gave the ball to Troop One, this fact
became even more apparent. Solid and compact, the blue line swept down
the field with a machine-like rush that carried everything before it.
They seemed to find holes ever