Dick had been through some trying moments during his brief football career at Leonardville, but he had never felt quite so conspicuous, never so uncertain of himself, as when he trotted out and joined the group of brown-jerseyed players by the thirty-yard line. His heart was beating like a sledge-hammer and his palms were moist and there was a funny prickling sensation in his legs. Diffidence had seldom troubled him before, and he felt doubly awkward now for that reason. But there wasn’t much time for thought of his feelings, for he had hardly joined his team-mates when the whistle blew the end of the minute intermission. Dick looked over his companions in the back-field and wished that he knew more of them. Trask, in Kirkendall’s position, was much the same sort of fellow in appearance as K. But he was lighter, and a good two years younger, Dick thought. Curtis was a good man and so was Skinner, but of the two Curtis’s style of play was better known to Dick. Gleason had been made acting captain, and it was the substitute guard who bent behind centre to whisper into the quarter’s ear. “We’ve got to get Skinner loose, Bates,” said Gleason. “He’s the boy if he can get away.” “All right. Let’s start something, Parkinson! Signals!” When the ball came back from between Dean’s wide-spread legs, Dick whirled and tossed it to Skinner, and Skinner, rather heavily built but quick at starting and hard to stop, went hurtling into the opposing left guard and, with half the Parkinson team behind him, smashed his way through for six yards. Then came every indication of a forward, with the left end edging out and showing nervous impatience and Dick dropping back eight yards behind centre and the half-backs watching the opposing ends. Back shot the ball to Dick, he made a pretence of throwing it to the left and turned his back to the line. Around swept Findley, the right end, and to him went the pigskin at a short, quick pass. The halfs fell into stride beside him and Dick sprang away to guard the rear. Four strides, six, and a sharp cry of “In! In!” The end dug a heel in the trampled sod and swung to the right. Straight toward the confusion of swaying bodies that had formed the two lines a moment before, he raced. Yet there was some method in the confusion, for Parkinson’s right end and one half had been drawn across the field on the false alarm and her tackle had been forced in. Back of the enemy line the secondary defence was rushing to the support of the forwards, but the interference cleaned the hole nicely and Findley shot through, dodged a tackle and was off at a tangent, finding holes where there seemed none, racing diagonally toward the right side-line. The interference was gone now and he was on his own, but only the Parkinson quarter remained between him and the distant goal. Free of the mêlée, he swung down the field at the forty-yard line, a scant dozen feet from the boundary.