The next act went with rush and vim. Demarest had written better than he knew. There was not an unnecessary word. The plot unfolded swiftly and naturally, with an ever-increasing interest. The business was splendid, thanks to Merriwell’s blue-penciling of the afternoon, and more than one burst of applause greeted some particularly apt sally. The scene ended with a dramatic encounter between the heroine, played with grace and spirit, by Marion Gray, and the villain, in which the girl heard the latter plotting to have _Jarvis_ thrown off the team by means of false statements that he had betrayed signals to Harvard, and vowed that she would save _Jarvis_, whom she loved, by going to the captain of the eleven with what she had just learned. The curtain fell to a prolonged burst of applause, and again Dick had to go before it with Miss Gray. Then he hustled back to get into his football rig for the great scene. This took place in the track house on the field. Through a great window at the back could be seen one end of a tier of seats crowded with spectators, in which the real actors blended into the figures painted on the drop so perfectly that the effect was one of a vast, shouting, flag-waving mob of people. As the curtain rose, the entire football team was on the stage, receiving final instructions from the coaches before the game. _Hicks_, the villain, accused _Jarvis_ of selling their signals to Harvard. The latter indignantly denied it, and was only restrained from pitching into his enemy by the efforts of the other men. _Hicks_ produced his forged proofs, and _Jarvis_ was thrown off the team. The team rushed off to the field, and _Jarvis_, left alone, threw himself into a chair, and dropped his head on his arms, outstretched across a table, in an agony of heartbroken despair. It was a thrilling moment. The whole vast audience was so still that one could almost have heard a pin drop. Then a shrill whistle from the field outside the window split the silence, and the mimic crowd on the grand stand burst forth into a roar. Still _Jarvis_ did not raise his head. Then came the sounds of the game. The thudding of many feet upon a mimic turf, the shrill cries and shouts of the excited spectators, the waving of many flags. Slowly _Jarvis_ lifted his head, and looked toward the window. The game was going on, and he was out of it. He would not look! He did not want to, but, little by little, against his will, he crept to the window. The game was in full swing; his blood was thrilled as his eyes were riveted on the field; unconsciously he followed the progress of the struggle aloud.