"That Captain of yours is an ugly customer, I judge," said the Winston storekeeper to Pete Marston, who had put up his horses and was leaning against the fence. "Waal no, Reddy ain't ugly 'xac'ly. He's square 's a meetin'-house--ain't afraid 'f th' inside o' one neither; only when football's on he _plays the game_, that's all. Don't believe he sees anythin' but the ball, or knows there's anybody here but them players. He's jes so in ev'rythin' else. 'Twouldn't be no diff'rent if 'twas drawin' trygomertry figgers on that there blackboard up 't Blackwood school. He wouldn't hev nothin' in his red head then but rules 'nd chalk-marks. He ain't jest what I call a chromo fer looks, but he's all pluck, 'nd I hain't seen no cleaner-talkin', perliter boy in the last ten years." * * * * * It was a disheartened group that gathered in the Blackwood dressing-room for the intermission when the game was half over. Winston had five points, Blackwood none. Buck Harris had fumbled the ball almost in front of his own goal. A Winston man immediately dropped on it, and in the play that followed Mellen had kicked a clean goal from the field at twenty-eight yards. As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped on the bench and groaned out: "It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The next half'll be a regular procession." "Buck, that's enough." The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern enough now. "Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet." And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack. * * * * * It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line was in danger. These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain. Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed. He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places, and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and through. Ned Barstow knew him well, and could not resist a bantering word. "How d'you like it, Reddy?" "Blackwood's never beaten _till the game is done_!" came through Mark's set teeth.