Hollister did not leave his place on the grass. He could not bring himself to go back to the house with the team. He had not the heart. And so he lay there viciously jabbing the blade of his knife into the ground, his brow drawn into a scowl, his brown eyes full of a strange mixture of longing and pain. He had been watching Blake’s playing, and it had taken him only a few moments to see how much it fell short of his own. Hollister was not in the least conceited, but he had a keen sense of sizing a fellow up on the field and had always viewed his own good points and shortcomings as dispassionately as he did those of any one else. Watching Jarvis Blake, he knew that he himself could have done better. Blake was a good player, but he was deficient in some important qualifications, principally initiative and speed in starting. Time and time again, Bob saw him fail to take advantage of an opportunity which might have meant a gain of yards to his team. Once, in his excitement, he had shouted a warning to the substitute, only to realize what he was doing and choke himself into silence. The third quarter started off with a fresh swing. The rest had done all the men good, and evidently there had been some straight talk in the athletic house which heartened them and brought them to a realizing sense of the gravity of their position. The ball was forced down to within the thirty-yard line without a pause. Hollister, watching eagerly, soon saw whose brain was dominating the work. Almost every time the pigskin was passed to Merriwell. And, with quite as much regularity, the brilliant senior responded nobly. He seemed to be everywhere at once, slippery as an eel, dodging hither and thither in a most bewildering fashion, sometimes passing the ball to Crowfoot, or another on whom he could depend, but always making gains, ever advancing, until Bob found himself sitting erect, his cheeks burning and his eyes sparkling as he watched this amazing exhibition of almost perfect football. Would he make it? Could he possibly hold out to reach the line? Suddenly his question was answered. The quarter back ripped out a rapid signal which Bob could not hear perfectly; the ball was snapped back; there was a bewildering, lightninglike, intricate pass. Hollister gasped. It was his improved crisscross play, the last thing he had worked out before he had left the team. The pigskin seemed to leap from one man to another like a thing endowed with life. For a minute he lost track of it, and then he caught his breath swiftly as Merriwell sprang out of the mêlée, the pigskin tucked under his arm, and raced over the turf as if he were as fresh as the moment he had first set foot on the field. The Princeton crowd was taken by surprise. The pass had been so cleverly made that most of them thought the ball was being sent around the other end, and there was a surging rush in that direction, which left a comparatively free field for Dick.