“_Hold, Broadmoor!_” shouted the throng that, deserting the stand, had clustered along the side-line to the left. “_Hold, Broadmoor! Hold, Broadmoor!_” “_Block that kick! Block that kick!_” chanted the crowd across the field. The ball left the hands of Pete Zosker and traveled toward Barry. But Pete had committed his one fault of the game. The pass was straight but short and the pigskin struck the ground a yard away. Barry got it on the bound, but already the enemy was breaking through. There was no time to steady himself and kick. He thought quickly in that instant, weighing the chances. Then he slipped the ball into the crook of his elbow, turned right, and dashed away, past the nearer goal-post, running parallel to the boundary. Tumult filled the air, but he heard nothing save the hoarse shout of Haviland, almost at his elbow: “In! In!” Barry turned, digging his cleats hard, and shot toward the goal-line. To be stopped short of it would mean the end of everything! Haviland mowed down a foe just as Barry reached the almost obliterated mark. A blue-sleeved body charged against him and hands fell about his shoulders, but he swerved and the clutch only swung him to the left, and he staggered across the line, fell, arose again, took another stride, and was hauled to earth. When the ball was uncovered it lay not quite three yards inside. Breathless, Barry found himself leaning against Pete Zosker’s ample form, and Pete was saying huskily, contritely: “Gee, kid! I’m sorry! Next time you’ll get it right!” Indeed, next time it must be right, for now, when Barry had again stepped back, one of the goal-posts loomed threateningly close. It would be no hard matter to crash the ball against it, and if he did, almost anything might happen. It was third down now and ten to go. This time Pete sent the ball perfectly and Barry, fighting the impulse to hurry the punt, poised the pigskin carefully, almost deliberately, stepped forward, and kicked. But the ball didn’t clear the line. A Hoskins forward had fought his way through and against his upflung arm the ball struck and bounded aside, to the left. Shrieks of triumph, of desperate alarm arose. “_Ball! Ball!_” A dozen frantic players turned in pursuit. But the chase was between Barry and a Hoskins back, and it was Barry who won. The pigskin, bouncing erratically this way and that, maintained a general course toward the side-line between the first two white streaks, and it was still bobbing along when Barry, a split-second ahead of his adversary, dropped to the turf and gathered it to him. The enemy crashed down upon him, driving the breath from his body, wrenching grimly the prize. But Barry as grimly held on. A second foe, close on the heels of the first, landed, and Barry felt a swift jab of pain strike through an ankle just as the whistle shrilled.