he opposing line, and
shouts of joy arose from the crimson seats as gain after gain resulted.
Thrice in quick succession Captain Dutton shot through the left end of
the blue's line, the second time for a gain of five yards.

The cheering along the west side of the great field was now continuous,
and the leaders, their crimson badges fluttering agitatedly, were waving
their arms like tireless semaphores and exciting the supporters of
Harwell to greater and greater efforts. Nearer and nearer to the coveted
touch-down crept the crimson line. With clock-work precision the ball
was snapped, the quarter passed, the half leaped forward, the rush line
plunged and strove, and then from somewhere a faint "Down!" was cried;
and the panting players staggered to their feet, leaving the ball yet
nearer to the threatened goal line. On the blue's twenty-three yards the
whistle shrilled, and a murmur of dismay crept over the Yates seats as
it was seen that Captain Ferguson lay motionless on the ground. But a
moment's rubbing brought him to his feet again.

"He's not much hurt," explained the knowing ones. "He wants to rest a
bit."

A minute later, while the ball still hovered about the twenty-yard line,
Yates secured it on a fumbled pass, and the tide ebbed away from the
beleagured posts. Back as before were borne the crimson warriors, while
the Yates forwards opened holes in the opposing line and the Yates
halves dashed and wormed through for small gains. Then Fate again aided
the crimson, and on the blue's forty-seven-yard line a fake kick went
sadly aglee and the runner was borne struggling back toward his own goal
before he could cry "Down!" And big Chesney grinned gleefully as he
received the leather and bent his broad back above it.

Canes, crysanthemums, umbrellas, flags, carnations, hats, all these and
many other things waved frantically above the great bank of crimson as
the little knot of gallant knights in moleskin crept back over their
recent path of retreat and took the war again into the enemy's country.
Every inch of the way was stubbornly contested by the defenders, but
slowly they were pushed back, staggering under the shocks of the
crimson's attack. Chesney, Rutland, and Murdoch worked together, side by
side, like one man--or forty!--and when time was called for an instant
on the Yates twenty-five yards it was to bring Galt, the blue's left
tackle, back to consciousness and send him limping off the gridiron. His
pl