But Cumner didn’t crack. At least, she managed to make her distance in four and arrived at the Brown-and-White’s fifteen-yard line to the surprised dismay of the home rooters. The Parkinson left had been twice punctured for respectable gains and twice Cumner had slashed a path outside right tackle. Cumner had evolved a very satisfactory method for bottling Captain Peters, using a tackle, brought across from the other side of her line, and a back for the purpose. But, although the hundred or more Cumner supporters yelled in triumph and a touchdown seemed imminent, Parkinson for the time staved off a score. Two straight plunges at the left of her centre gained only two yards, and the Cumner right half walked back to kicking position. The angle, however, was difficult and few looked for a bona fide attempt at a field-goal. Consequently the short forward-pass that followed, from the Cumner right half directly across the centre of the line, didn’t catch the home team napping. Gaines intercepted it and went plunging back into the mêlée and made seven yards before he was stopped. Parkinson punted on first down and the ball was Cumner’s on her forty-six. Stanley taunted Sid with the failure of his prediction. “Where’s that score, you old gloom?” he demanded. “Dick, I don’t want to say anything that might be construed into a criticism of our mutual friend, Mr. Crocker, but I must remark that he’s a bum prophet.” “Hold your horses,” answered Sid soberly. “That score’s coming and it’s coming mighty soon. Those farmers have found someone to teach them football. They know the game. Watch them for the next five minutes, Stan, and then tell me if I’m a bum prophet.” “I’ll tell you so now,” replied Stanley cheerfully. “I don’t have to wait five minutes. Say what are those hayseeds up to? What sort of a silly stunt is that?”