When play began again Stone was somewhat dourly looking on from the bench and Cardin was in command. Phillipsburg had made no changes. Phillipsburg shot a breath-taking forward from her thirty-seven yards to Parkinson’s thirty-five, but, although it deserved to succeed, Bob Peters had his man guarded too closely and the pass grounded. A second attempt on a third down went better and Phillipsburg got seven yards, three more than needed. Then, on her forty-five, she started an advance that only slowed when she was under the Brown-and-White’s goal. Two forward-passes, each short but certain, took her well past midfield. After that two tricky split-plays let her clever quarter through for scandalous gains, and, almost before Parkinson realised what was happening, the ball was on the Brown-and-White’s twenty-one. There was much shouting from the stands, much anxiety on the benches as Phillipsburg stabbed the line once for practically no gain and then dropped a tackle back to kicking position. “Any fool could make a goal from there,” growled “Tip” Harris, who, deposed from left tackle position, had seated himself beside Dick. “It’s dead in front of goal and not thirty yards!” “But do they mean to try?” asked Dick. “Seems to me one of those short forwards of theirs----” “Yes, but I guess they want the three points, Bates. There’s a lot in getting first blood. Say, he doesn’t act as if he meant to kick, though! By jiminy----” Tip raised his voice imploringly: “Watch a run, Parkinson! Watch that man, Bob!” Mr. Driscoll, nearby, turned disapprovingly. “Cut that, Harris,” he ordered. Tip subsided, muttering. From the teams came many warnings: “Hold that line, Phillipsburg! Hold that line!” “Break it up! Block this kick, Parkinson!” “Watch that half!” “Signals! Signals!” “Come on! Here we go!” Back shot the ball to the tall tackle’s waiting hands. The lines plunged and heaved. The tackle swung a long leg under him. But the ball hadn’t left his hands, and now, pushing it into the crook of his left elbow, he sprang off to the left, the other backs closing in about him. As quickly as he had started, he stopped, swung directly about and, with two Parkinson men trying to reach him past his interference, raised the pigskin on high and threw far and swiftly. Thirty yards away a Phillipsburg end was streaking toward the corner of the field. Now he was past the line, well into the end zone, and not an opponent was near him. Straight for his upstretched hands flew the ball, like a brown streak, and not until too late did Parkinson see her danger. Then half a dozen of her defenders sprang toward the lone enemy. But the deed was done. Into his hands settled the ball, he turned on his heel and plunged toward the goal and when he had been rescued from under three brown-and-white legged opponents the pigskin was half-way between side-line and nearer goal-post.