“Cut out the weeps,” said Dan brutally. “Brace up, Al. Try a forward. Give it to me and I’ll get through with it somehow!” Simms dug a dirty knuckle into one eye, took a long breath and said quietly: “All right, Cap. We’ll get ’em yet!” “Hurry up,” said the referee impatiently. “You’ve got two minutes more,” cried the timer, running up, watch in hand. “All right here,” said Dan. “Now, fellows, get into this and make it go! You’ve got to do it! They’re half dead already! They can’t stop you! They can’t stop you! Look at them! They’re beaten now and they know it!” “We’d be dead for sure if bluff counted,” growled Bishop, as he edged along in front of Dan. The whistle blew. Simms laid his hand on Fogg’s back and raised his voice huskily: “Twenty-seven――twenty-one――fifteen――thirty-three――” “Hold on!” cried Greene. “Here’s a sub coming!” Simms straightened up again. Onto the field raced a youth in a pair of long gray trousers and a blue sweater. “What’s the matter?” cried Dan impatiently. Simms nodded. “Substitute for right half, sir!” cried the newcomer. “Who the dickens――” began Greene in disgust as he tore off his headgear. Dan hurried back, frowning. “Here, who sent you on?” “Mr. Payson.” “Hurry up, please!” cried the referee. But Dan and Simms and the newcomer were whispering together and paid no heed. “I’ll penalize you for delay if you don’t start,” threatened the referee. “All right, fellows!” cried Dan, springing back to his place, and, “_Change signals!_” shouted Simms. CHAPTER XXVI KENDALL MAKES THE FIRST As Mr. Dana, followed by Kendall, had gone around the end of the stand the Yardley players had come crowding past. Behind them, talking to Dan, was Mr. Payson, and the coach, observing the football in Mr. Dana’s hand, had stopped a moment. “You’ll be lame to-morrow if you do,” he said with a smile. “Not me,” replied Mr. Dana; “I know better. I’m going to try to solve a mystery, Payson.” The coach nodded and went on, and Mr. Dana and Kendall skirted the back of the stand until they reached the edge of the links. Then Mr. Dana turned to Kendall. “Now pull your coat and vest off, turn up your trousers and show me, Burtis!” “Kick it, sir?” asked Kendall wonderingly. “Kick the stuffing out of it! See how near you can come to putting it over there by that red flag.” Kendall threw aside coat and vest, took a good reef in his precious gray trousers at the bottoms and took the ball. “Drop-kick, sir?” he asked. “Yes.” Kendall poised the ball in his hands, judged distance and direction, took a step, dropped the pigskin and met it fairly with his toe. It was a fairly good kick, the ball traveling some thirty-five yards or more before it struck, but it landed twenty or thirty feet away from the flag. He turned apologetically to Mr. Dana. “That wasn’t very good, but you see I haven’t kicked for two or three weeks. Shall I try it again?” “Yes, try a placement.”