There were cheers from the stand behind him as he sped on, cheers for Renneker and for Grant, short, snappy cheers that made a fellow tingle. Leonard eyed Renneker anxiously as he drew near the little group. The big fellow seemed to be just about all in, he thought. He didn’t like the way his head lolled over on his shoulder, or those closed eyes of his. He hoped that-- Then he stared. Renneker’s eyes had opened as Leonard had come abreast, and then one of them had closed again in a most amazing wink! Leonard asked himself if he had imagined it. He turned his head to look back. Some one had taken Emerson’s place, but Renneker’s head still lolled and wobbled. He must have imagined that wink, and yet-- No, by jiminy, he hadn’t! He understood all at once. Renneker was faking! He had pretended an injury so that Leonard might have his place! “Hey! Report to the referee, General!” Appel’s voice brought him out of his amazed thoughts. He looked for the white sweater, found it and slipped into the line. A whistle blew again and--well, after that he was very busy. The game went on, hard, gruelling. Alton advanced and retreated, Kenly won ground and lost it. The ball hurtled through the air, feet pounded the turf, bodies rasped together, tired lungs fought for breath and aching legs for strength. The third period came to an end, the score unchanged. Leonard was playing better than he had ever played, better than he had thought himself capable of playing. His victories were not easily won, for his opponent was a big, hard-fighting fellow, but won they were. The right side of the Alton line was still holding firmly, and it continued to hold right up to those last few minutes of the game when the Cherry-and-Black, desperate, reinforced with fresh players, ground her way inexorably to the twenty-yard-line and, with Kenly throats imploring a touchdown, thrice threw her attack at the enemy line and was thrice repulsed almost under the shadow of the Alton goal. The end was close then, the time-keeper had his eyes on his watch more often than on the game and all hope of a touchdown by rushing tactics was abandoned by the home team. Either a pass over the line or a field-goal must serve. Thus far Kenly’s forward-passes had almost invariably failed, and this fact doubtless brought the decision to try for a tied score rather than a victory. At all events, Kenly placed her drop-kicker back, arranged her defenses and set the stage for the final act. The kicker was on the twenty-seven yards, no great distance now that the breeze had died away. The signal came, the ball shot back, the lines met.