"I'm--I'm all right," replied Phil, though faintly. "My head hit a stone, I guess. Give me a little water, and I'll go on with the game!" "He's got pluck!" exclaimed Nottingham admiringly, but neither he nor any of the others knew the full extent of the quarter-back's pluck. "I'm awfully sorry, old man," went on Nottingham, who was one of the best fellows in the world. "I didn't mean to come at you so hard." "That's all right," spoke Phil gently, and he tried to smile. "We're going to beat you for that." He got to his feet inside the required two minutes. "Signal!" he cried, but there was lacking in his tones some of his old-time vigor. He called for a play between guard and tackle. Right at Nottingham the play was directed, and Dutch Housenlager was to make it--big Dutch, who seemed to be all bone, muscle and sinew. A gleam was in Phil's eyes as he gave the last letter of the signal. There were but four yards to go to make a touch-down. Could Randall do it? "They must do it! They would do it!" Phil was deciding for the whole team. He felt that they must make that distance, if he had to carry the entire eleven on his shoulders. Snail Looper was about to snap the ball back. Boxer Hall was bracing as she had never braced before. It was now or never. If Randall got a second touch-down it would mean practically that she would win the game and the championship. Back came the ball. Phil passed it to Dutch, and up against the solid wall of flesh went the big right-tackle. You could almost hear the impact over in the grandstand. Behind him were his mates. In front of him, pulling and hauling on him, were more of them. On either side were the Boxer Hall players, who had been torn from their places to make a hole. From either side they came leaping in to stop the gap--to stop the advance of the man with the ball. On and on struggled Dutch. He felt that he was not himself--that he was but a small part of that seething, struggling mass--an atom in a crushing, grinding, whirling, heaving, boiling caldron of human beings. Breaths were coming short and quick, eyes were flashing. It was push and shove, haul, slip, stumble. Player was piled on player. Tom Parsons and the other ends were on the outside. Holly Cross was pushing and shoving, glad if he felt the mass in front of him give but the fraction of an inch. Then, from somewhere beneath that mass of humanity, came the voice of Dutch Housenlager. "Down!" he called faintly. The heaving human hill slowly settled down, as when the fire is withdrawn from under a boiling kettle. The whistle blew. Slowly the mass was disintegrated. Sore, bruised, scratched; bleeding some of them, lame most of them, desperately anxious all of them, the players fell apart. Dutch was lying on his face, his big back arched. The ball was not to be seen. Had there been a fumble? The goal line passed beneath the stomach of the big tackle. Slowly he arose, and then such a shout as rent the air.