Dick Merriwell’s work in this scene was masterly in its simplicity. He had forgotten that he was playing a part—had almost forgotten that he was on the stage. For the time he really was _Lance Jarvis_, and his expression of the heartbreaking agony of the man ruled off his team at the crucial moment, watching the progress of the game with straining eyes and sweating brow, seeing the weakness of his team, and yet not able to help, was something which could never be forgotten. The crowded house was thrilled into silence. Men sat on the edges of their seats, with eyes riveted on that single figure at the window, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear they would break the spell. Presently the game began to go against the Yale team. Slowly the line was forced down the field. The vivid words of the unconscious actor painted the scene for the excited audience as clearly as if they had been looking on the game itself. “They’re gaining!” he cried desperately. “They’re going through the line with every rush! _Lawrence_ is groggy! They’re hammering him! Another ten yards and they’ll make a touchdown!” As if unable to longer watch the failure of his team, Merriwell turned from the window, and put one hand over his eyes. This was the cue for the newsboy to rush in with word that the heroine had been intercepted by the villain’s friends while on her way to save _Jarvis_, but to Dick’s surprise the boy did not appear. He waited a moment, and then, turning back for an instant to the window, improvised a line or two. Suddenly the door burst open, and the belated boy appeared. His face was white, his eyes shining with excitement, a smear of blood trickled from a cut on his face. Leaping across the stage, he caught Dick’s arm. “They’ve got her!” he shrilled. “They’re trying to get Miss Gray into a cab. Hurry! Hurry, or you’ll be too late!” These were not the proper words at all, but they seemed very appropriate to the audience, who burst into applause. Dick, knowing full well that something was wrong, rushed from the stage, with the boy at his heels. Outside he stopped, and faced the actor. “What is it?” he demanded. “What are you talking about? What’s the matter?” “They’ve got Miss Gray!” gasped the boy. “Down at the stage door. They’re carrying her off. One of ’em hit me a crack——” He found himself talking to empty air. Merriwell rushed through the wings, flung himself down the short flight of stairs, and burst out into the street. The boy was right. A cab was drawn up close to the curb, into which two men were trying to force Marion Gray. The girl was struggling desperately, and trying to drag away the hand of one of them, which was pressed close against her mouth to prevent her crying out. Like a panther, Merriwell sprang at them. With a grip of iron he seized the collar of one, and tore him away from the girl, planting a smashing blow on his face as he did so. The next minute the other was stretched on the ground, and Marion was free.