Mr. Cade had begun to relieve the more wearied of his players, and the line-up showed half a dozen new faces. Captain Jonas, however, was still in, and so were the first-string ends, Joe Tate and Chick. Lorimer, too, had introduced fresh material, even more lavishly, and Alton, after receiving a punt on her thirty-nine yards, was trying desperately to tie or win. Fitz Savell twice worked himself loose for short runs and Couch, who had taken Galvin’s place, ripped a hole in the left of the enemy line and romped through for eight yards before he was smothered. Keys failed to gain from the Lorimer forty-three, and Couch faked a forward and then tried the Lorimer left and gathered in almost enough to win a first down. Savell added the necessary yard and then, on the subsequent effort, once more shook off the enemy and reached Lorimer’s twenty-two. There the enemy stiffened and, after two unsuccessful attempts by Couch and Keys, and with the sands of time running low, Couch went back to kicking position. He wasn’t much of a goal kicker, and, although he was standing inside the thirty yards, those in the Alton section of the stand, even while they shouted hoarsely for victory, had little hope of a score. What they did hope was that, since this was only third down, Couch or some one else would try a forward-pass before risking all on a kick. And, lo, that is just what Couch did try. Taking the pigskin on a pass from center, he retreated to the right, poising the ball in a generous hand, and, at the last instant of safety hurled it down the field to where Chick lurked unnoticed of the defenders. The throw was well-nigh perfect and covered all of twenty-five yards, and Chick had only to step back a pace to get it, and, having got it, need only leap across a scant ten yards to turn defeat into victory. Alton started her pæan of triumph while the pigskin still spun lazily in its flight, while Lorimer visioned defeat and sought desperately to reach the unguarded receiver. Chick had his heroic moment then, poised steady and confident in the path of the ball. Doubtless every faculty was alert, every nerve tense. And yet success slipped through his fingers or bounded out of them! The watchers would have sworn that he had the ball safe, that he had turned to run, and yet in the next instant the ball was a free agent, arching maliciously beyond his frantic clutching! It struck the ground, went bobbing across the side-line, and some two hundred mouths, vocal a second before, remained open but empty of sound! And from somewhere half-way up the stand came a familiar voice in tones audible on the gridiron. “You’ve got to hold it, Chick,” called Tommy Parish, “or it’ll get away from you! Guess nobody told you that!” Couch made a hopeless try at a goal from the thirty yards, failed miserably and the ball went to Lorimer. There was no more.