Some one took the ball from him and some one else jerked him erect, gibbering praise. A great hand smote him between the shoulders and a harsh but jubilant voice said: “Great work, Locke! Oh, great work, boy!” Barry grimaced into Buck’s grimy countenance. He meant to smile, but the throbbing in his ankle turned the smile into a painful leer. “Want time?” demanded the captain, anxiously. “What’s wrong?” “No,” Barry panted. “I guess I turned my ankle. I’m all right.” He detached himself from Boardman’s sustaining grasp and took a tentative step, and another. As he had purposely turned his face away from the two, they didn’t see his brows contract as he put his weight on that left foot. Well, after all, it wasn’t so bad. If he favored it a very little he scarcely had to limp. Captain Buckley looked doubtful, but Ike only said: “Ata boy! Come on! Let’s get out of this! Hey, how much time, Mr. Referee?” A hovering official answered: “Forty seconds, Broadmoor! Forty seconds, Hoskins!” Barry grinned resolutely as he once more and for the last time went back to kicking position. The grin was necessary. It was grin or grimace, for something was plainly wrong with that left foot of his. It hurt like the dickens if he even put it to the ground. Going back had to be done carefully, for if the Major saw, or the trainer, they’d want to know all about it; and what they didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt them. Some one had to kick out of there, and no else could, now that Tip Cartright was gone and couldn’t come back. Barry chose his station very carefully, tested that throbbing foot, and once more waited for the ball. This was Broadmoor’s last chance. Again Pete Zosker shot the pigskin back accurately, and again the lines crashed together. Hoskins, too, faced her last chance. If she could block this punt as she had the last, she might, even if Broadmoor recovered, smash across that one short yard to a touchdown and victory. But this time the Purple-and-Gray held and Barry punted unhurriedly. There was an instant of fierce shooting pain as he put all his weight on the injured foot while the other swung along its long arc, but he gritted his teeth and went through with it. Leather met leather and the ball bounded away, well above the waving hands of the desperate, plunging foe, up into the path of the north wind, and then, lazily turning in its flight, sailed far down the field, while blue legs and gray legs started in pursuit. Barry watched a moment from the ground, for, having punted, he had dropped in his tracks while a Hoskins forward hurdled over him. It was a great relief to sit there, but he mustn’t do it. Somewhere well beyond the middle of the field the ball had settled into the arms of a player and Broadmoor, converging, was hurrying toward it. Barry got weakly to his feet and set off. He made no effort to hide the limp now. He had done his part. If they wanted to bench him, they might.