With knitted brows, he watched the progress of the ball down the field toward Yale’s goal. There was no doubt in his mind that the orange-and-black fellows had made the most of some very efficient coaching. Their teamwork was splendid, and every now and then they made use of some novel play which caused Hollister to bestow upon them a sincere, if somewhat grudging, admiration. But presently he ceased to watch their good points and bent an anxious, scrutinizing eye upon his former comrades. Something seemed to be the matter with their playing. A subtle, impalpable something, hard to define, but plainly evident to the quick mind of the man on the side line. There was a slight absence of snap, of unity, which perhaps another might not have seen. Hollister was entirely too modest to realize that his absence from the team could make any difference. He did not see that the lack of his swift, perfect brainwork, his cheering encouragement, would be felt to any appreciable extent. And yet, that was actually the case. Merriwell was playing a perfect game, Buckhart was at his best; but they could not carry the whole team. Don Tempest, still not perfectly strong after his long illness, and feeling the lack of the practice which he had lost, did not make a very good showing. While Phil Keran, though he was a good steady player and did his best, could never take the place of Hollister, one of the best ends Yale had ever had. Slowly the ball was forced back. Nearer and nearer it came to the goal. Bob’s heart leaped into his throat and he could not swallow. They must not make a goal—they must not! Then the line stiffened, the advance ceased. Two downs brought barely five yards gain. Not daring to risk another forward pass, Princeton tried a kick from the field. The ball soared over the heads of the scrimage line. To Hollister, tense, breathless, it seemed as if it would pass over the bar, and he groaned aloud as the orange-and-black line surged forward in its wake. The groan changed to a gasp of joy as the pigskin carromed from an upright and a tall, lithe figure leaped into the air, clutched it and dropped back. It was Merriwell. Bob could have shouted aloud in his relief had he not been too intent on watching the outcome. For an instant the men were so involved in a tangle of flying figures and waving arms that he could not see what had become of the ball. Then, all at once, a man darted around the end, closely followed by two others, and sped over the ground in an oblique course toward the farther side line. In an instant Bob recognized him as Crowfoot, and realized that Dick had in some way passed the ball swiftly to the Indian, who, assisted by Elwell and Kenny, the quarter back, was covering the ground like a streak of light. Kenny was bowled over instantly; Elwell met his Waterloo a minute afterward; but by the time Crowfoot was tackled by one of the Princeton guards he had covered thirty yards and the ball was back out of danger.