Fenstermaker, Trumbull guard, knelt beside him. He was crying ... the tears making odd little rivulets down his blackened face. "Come on, Judd ... we'll make a hole for you!" Judd struggled to his feet. They were all willing to help him. He was astounded at his own power to keep going. He didn't seem to care what happened. It didn't seem like it was he at all. He allowed them to set him on his feet. "You--you fellows make the hole," he said, "I-I'll go through!" On the sidelines, under the very goal posts, the great Bob stood ... his cap was in his hands ... his hair was wet with rain ... his feet were almost lost to view in a puddle of water ... he was unconscious of anything but the actions of his brother. A Trumbull fan, recognizing him, pounded Bob on the back. "I guess you'll have to take a back seat now, eh Bob? The kid's got it all over you!" If Judd could have known what his brother was thinking of him then! If he could only have known that Bob was on the sidelines! But Judd didn't know a thing except that this was his fight. He wasn't even playing for the school. He wasn't thinking of any honor. His single thought was that to have failed in what he set out to do was to fail in everything. Bob watched Judd as he swayed upon his feet; his eyes followed him as he lunged forward and took the ball once more; he lost sight of Judd for a moment, then saw him come straining through the line with a tackler hanging to his waist. The tackler's hand slipped off ... Judd shook himself free ... Bob wanted to shout, "Look out!" as he saw Drake dive for him ... then he caught his breath as the kid dodged the fullback but slipped and fell. Drake turned and threw himself upon Judd as Judd rolled over and planted the ball over the goal line. The name "Billings" rang from one end of the field to the other, with the substitute fullback being lifted to his feet and pummeled by his team-mates who were crazy with joy ... but Judd was so fatigued that his attempt at a goal after a touchdown went wide. Two minutes more to play and the score 14 to 12 in favor of Canton. It was Trumbull's kickoff, Barley begging Judd to hurry up. Judd swung his toe against the ball and started to follow his kick dazedly. The ball, water-soaked and heavy, carried to Canton's five yard line. The best Canton could do was carry it back ten yards. Because the game was so nearly over ... the Canton quarterback ordered a punt. "Mud Scow" Drake, with a self-confident smile on his dirt-rimmed face, stood with his arms outstretched waiting to send the ball far down the field ... crushing the last slight hope of victory from Trumbull. It had been a terrific game ... and Drake was conscious of his power now as never before. Barley, realizing that this was the most critical moment in the entire game, ran along the line exhorting the half dead linesmen to a final frenzied effort. "Get in there, fellows, and block that kick! Block that kick!"