ace in the line was taken by an old Hilltonian, one Dunsmore, and the
game went on.

And now it was the blue that was in full retreat and the crimson that
pursued. Nearer and nearer to the Yates goal line went the resisting
besieged and the conquering besiegers, and the great black score-board
announced but eight more minutes of the first half remaining. But even
eight were three more than were needed. For Harwell crossed the twenty
yards by tandem on tackle, gained the fifteen in two downs by wedges
between tackle and guard, and from there on until the much-desired goal
line was reached never paused in her breathless, resistless onslaught.
It was Wesley Blair who at last put the ball over for a touch-down,
going through between center and left guard with all the weight of the
Harwell Eleven behind him. His smothered "Down!" was never heard, for
the west stand was a swaying, tumultuous unit of thunderous acclaim.

Up went the flags and banners of crimson hues, loud sounded the paean
of praise and thanksgiving from thousands of straining throats, while
below on the side lines the coaches leaped for joy and strained each
other to their breasts in unspeakable delight.

And while the shouting went on as though never would the frenzied
shouters cease, the grim, panting Yates players lined up back of their
goal line, on tiptoe, ready at the first touch of the ball to the earth
to spring forward and, leaping upward, strive to arrest the speeding
oval. Prone upon the ground, the ball in his hands, lay Story. A yard or
two distant Blair directed the pointing of it. The goal was a most
difficult one, from an angle, and long the full-back studied and
directed, until faint groans of derision arose from the impatient east
stand and the men behind the goal line moved restively.

"Lacing to you," said Blair quietly. Story shifted the ball
imperceptibly.

"More." The quarter-back obeyed.

"Cock it." Higher went the end toward the goal.

"Not so much." It was lowered carefully, slowly.

"Steady." Blair stepped back, glanced once swiftly at the cross-bar, and
stepped forward again.

"Down!" Story's left hand touched the grass, the Yates men surged
forward, there was a thud, and--

Upward sped the ball, rising, rising, until it topped the bar, then
slowly turning over, over in its quickening descent. But the nearly
silent west stand had broke again into loud cries of triumph, and upon
the face of the Scoreboard appeared the mo