"You've got to do it, Brimfield!" shouted Edwards intensely. "Don't let them get the jump on you like that! Get into it, Crewe! Watch that man, Gilbert! Come on now! Put it over!" "Signals!" shrieked Carmine. "Make it go this time! Over with it!" Back went Rollins, hands outstretched. "Fake!" shouted Claflin. "Watch the ball! Watch the ball!" Rollins's arms fell, empty, as St. Clair grabbed the pigskin and swept wide to the right. "_In! In!_" cried Carmine. St. Clair turned and shot toward the broken line. His interference did its part, but the Claflin left end had fooled Holt and it was that blue-legged youth who got St. Clair and thumped him to the sod. An anxious, breathless moment followed. Brimfield called for time and St. Clair, on his back, kicked and squirmed while they pumped the air back into his lungs. The referee, kneeling over the ball, squinted along the line. Then: "Fourth down and about two to go!" he announced. St. Clair had lost a half-yard! Claflin cheered weakly. Steve Edwards and Carmine consulted. "We'd better kick it over," said Carmine. "They're getting the jump on us every time, Steve." Carmine's voice was husky and he had to gasp his words out. Steve, panting like an engine, shook his head. "We need the touchdown," he said. "We'll put it over. Try 11. Tim can make it." St. Clair walked back to his place. The whistle sounded again. "Come on, Brimfield!" gasped Carmine. "This is your last chance! If you don't do it this time you'll never do it! Play like you meant it! Stop your fooling and show 'em football! Every man into this and _make it go_! Hall over! Signals!" Hall pushed his way to the left of the line. Claflin shuffled to meet the change. "Signals! 83--38--11--106!" "_Signals!_" cried St. Clair. Carmine turned on him, snarling. "Use your bean! Change signals! Hall over! 61--16--11--37! 61--16--11----" Back shot the ball to the quarter. Off sped St. Clair around his end, followed by Rollins. Carmine crouched, back to the line, while he counted five. Then Tim Otis shot forward, took the delayed pass, jammed the ball against his stomach and went in past Thursby on the right. Tim struck the line as if shot out of a gun. There was no hole there, but Tim made one. If the secondary defence, overanxious, had not been fooled by that fake attack at their end Tim would never have gained a foot. But as it was Claflin was caught napping in the centre of her line. Tim banged against a brawny guard, Carmine, following him through, added impetus, the Claflin line buckled inward! Shouts and grunts, stifled groans of despair from the yielding blue line! Then Brimfield closed in behind Tim and he was borne off his feet and on and over to fall at last in a chaos of struggling bodies well across the goal line!