out and took their places. Ridgley was to kick off to Jefferson.

Neil Durant helped Ned Stillson set the ball on the mound of earth and
Ned drew back a few yards. A hush had settled over stands and field;
down in the shadow of the south goal posts stood Norris, bending
slightly forward, eager to get the ball in his arms; in front of him
were his team-mates spread out to cover their half of the field. Just
beyond the center was the line of Ridgley players. Suddenly these eleven
players moved, the referee's whistle cut the hush, the ball went sailing
down the field and shouts arose from every quarter of the stands. The
moment had at last arrived; the big game was on.

Teeny-bits felt keen and fit; his long sleep had completely refreshed
him. As he raced down the field one thought was in his mind: to get into
the play and tackle whatever Jefferson man caught the ball. Ned Stillson
had made a clever kick-off; the leather oval flew to the right of Norris
and settled into the arms of one of his team-mates, who had dashed
forward only ten yards when Neil Durant met him with a clean, hard
tackle and brought him solidly to earth. Even such a small incident as
that evoked a howl of delight from the Ridgley stands, for such was the
reputation of Jefferson that there were those who fearfully expected to
see the wearer of the purple dash through the whole Ridgley team and
score a touchdown at the first effort. The cheer leader ordered the
short Ridgley yell for the team and the stand responded with a hoarse
roar. There was scarcely a son of Ridgley gazing down on the field but
whose teeth were gritted together, whose breath was coming fast, and
whose voice as he shouted encouragement to the team was like the voice
of a man hurling defiance to a mortal enemy.

As the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage, Teeny-bits got his
first close view of Norris. The famed full-back of the purple was of
about Neil Durant's height, of an impressively powerful build, but not
so heavy as to appear sluggish. He looked the Ridgley team over with
steady, appraising eyes; his face was keen and determined,--the very
look of him indicated that he was on the field for business.

The Jefferson quarter was snapping out the signals; his voice cut the
medley of shouts that echoed back and forth across the field like the
shrill voice of a dog barking in a tempest. Suddenly the ball moved and
the first scrimmage was on. The Jefferson right half-back had