Three white streaks danced before his eyes now. A form leaped at him, all blue-clad arms, and Kendall’s open hand flattened against a face and he was still free. Two lines more now, only two! A shock almost threw him from his feet; hands were clutching at his hips; he whirled on one heel, staggered and broke away; a form dashed in front of him, hands stretching upward; Kendall leaped and went over the falling foe; the last line was under foot! One stride――another!―― Many hands fell upon him, dragging him down! He tried to shake free, but they were too many for him! He fell to his knees, something crashed against him, driving the remaining breath from his body, and he toppled over on the turf, the old injury paining horribly and his lungs bursting for air. [Illustration: “Something crashed against him, driving the remaining breath from his body.”] They led him away to the side-lines, for the leather harness had failed him and the bones had slipped out again. And while the spectators held their breaths, Fales tried to kick a goal. Victory for the Blue depended on his efforts, and he knew it. Weary and panting, he directed the poising of the ball, stepped forward and kicked. The pigskin rose erratically, turned lazily over and dropped weakly to earth in front of the charging Broadwood line. And Fales sat down on the turf, rolled onto his face, buried his head in his arms and wept! Said the scoreboard: Broadwood 6; Visitors 6. CHAPTER XXV KENDALL IS MISTAKEN Kendall sat in a corner of the barge as it rattled its way through clouds of dust back to Wissining. They had pulled his wrist into place again, bandaged it and put it back in a sling. Every bump of the barge’s weak springs made it throb painfully. But it was not his injury that Kendall minded. It was the knowledge that he had failed his fellows and the school. That was what hurt. He had lost the game, he told himself miserably. It had needed only that goal from the field to win, and he had missed it. He still wondered how it had happened. He had dropped the ball as well as he knew how, had kicked at the right instant, his instep had met it squarely, he was convinced that he had made no miscalculation of the distance. And yet, by some unhappy chance, the ball had barely cleared the bar underneath instead of sailing over. Since the whistle had blown he had avoided the glances of his teammates, was avoiding them now. He knew that by to-morrow they would find excuses for him, the kinder-hearted ones at least, but now they must all loathe him; and he didn’t want to read that loathing in their faces. So he kept his eyes on the roadside all the way back to school, only occasionally conscious of his aching wrist, and was very unhappy and weary and sore.