But none seemed to heed him. The Hoskins quarter had been run outside at the fifty-yard line. Broadmoor had called time and Major Loring was sending in substitutes as fast as he could call their names: Patterson, Sisson, Van Brunt, Hall, Brush, Allen, Cruger. The milling throng along the eastern border cheered busily. Thad Brush waved Barry back as the latter slowly approached the group. “We’ll play it safe!” he called. “Only sixteen seconds left. Watch for a forward!” Barry hobbled back, the new quarter still excitedly chattering as they found their positions half-way to the goal. Barry wished the whistle would blow. It did at last. Beyond the widespread Broadmoor line the enemy scuttled this way and that, the ball passing from one to another. An end darted around Follen and came tearing down the field. Shrill cries of warning arose. The ball, uncertain in the gathering twilight, hurtled from beyond the confusion of running forms and Barry started into action. Behind him, gaining on his limping team-mate, sped Thad Brush. Barry, Hoskins end, and pigskin met close to the side-line. Barry was not there soon enough to spoil a splendid catch of a wonderful throw, for the long-legged end pulled the ball from the air and turned to run before Barry launched himself. He missed his tackle, for one doesn’t leap accurately from an injured foot, but he sent the runner staggering out of bounds and, although the latter would have treated that fact as of no consequence, and took up his flight once more, a whistle blew, an official dug a heel into the turf, a horn tooted discordantly, and the game was over! Broadmoor flooded the field, a pushing, shouting army of joy-crazed youths. Banners swirled, hats soared. Caught in the maelstrom, Barry demurred, begged, entreated, but he was quickly hoisted aloft to go bobbing across the field on the shoulders of four bareheaded, shouting fellows, his left foot dangling painfully, his countenance set in a resolute grin. On the score-board the white 6 and the white 3 showed only dimly in the dusk. * * * * * Barry lay in bed. Well, not quite that, either, for although his bath-robe had taken the place of his outer garments and a spread was pulled up to his shoulders, he could not be said to have wholly retired. Down there toward the foot of the bed his left ankle, swathed in bandages, grumbled ceaselessly. But it didn’t shoot with hot pains as it had during that journey home between Peaches and Ira Haviland. Ira had been almost laughably solicitous. One might have thought that a sprained ankle was a fatal injury! At intervals Ira had declared with emphasis: “You done noble, young feller, I’ll tell the squint-eyed world! You’re the hen’s chin, Locke!”