“In! In!” shrieked Holmes, sending a Nordham man sprawling, and Kendall, swinging to the right, made for the goal-line. A red-sleeved figure sprang in front of him, and Kendall’s right arm went out, there was a shock and the red sleeves slipped from view. One more white line passed under his feet. The air was filled with shouts. One of his own men stumbled into his path and went down. Kendall sprang over him, slipped, found his stride again, and looked into the wild, wide eyes of the Nordham quarter. Out went the straight arm again, but the quarter darted aside and sprang. His hands clutched at Kendall’s hips as the latter pivoted. The quarter’s hands slid from the slippery, rain-soaked canvas and closed like a vise about one leg. Kendall, gasping for breath, struggled on, that dead weight sliding behind him. He had lost all sense of location and had no idea how near to the goal-line he was. His only thought was to go on and on, somehow, as long as they would let him. Then a long red arm shot across his chest, a body banged against him, and he fell to one knee, clutching the ball desperately with both hands. He struggled to rise again, felt himself being pulled backward, resisted to the limit of his strength, and finally squirmed forward, burying his face in the cold, wet grass just as the whistle shrilled. Someone pulled him over onto his back and wrested the ball away from him. For a moment, with closed eyes, he fought for breath. Then, conscious of a numbing pain in one arm and of a sound that beat upon his ears like breakers on a beach, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a shock of red hair, then something brown and dripping, and, when the sponge was gone, leaving him gasping and half-blinded, a white-painted post so near that he could have stretched out his arm and touched it. Slowly his gaze traveled up the post until it found a bar set at right angles with it. He smiled satisfiedly. “It’s――over, isn’t it?” he asked weakly. “A yard over,” answered Andy’s voice. “And now you’ll come off.” “No, I must kick the goal,” Kendall demurred. “Here, boys, get him out of this,” was Andy’s reply, and Kendall found himself being lifted to his feet. “All right,” he muttered. “I can walk. Let me go, you fellows.” But when they let him go he staggered and reeled and Andy had to hold him up. After that he went off to the bench quite docilely between two substitutes, regarding the faces that forever got in his way, faces with blazing eyes and wide-open mouths, through a haze of perplexity. Somehow, there was a great deal of noise going on! Presently, blanketed, his arm once more in a sling, he was leaning back against the stand, quite satisfied with the world. From where he sat, quite alone save for Andy, he could see only the backs of the crowd, a crowd gone suddenly silent. He knew then that someone, probably Fales, was preparing to try a goal, and would have got up and gone to see had not Andy pushed him gently back into his seat.