Hastings, the big captain, stood there, poising himself for the effort, and every eye was glued upon his really fine figure. Hastings knew it, and purposely lingered just a trifle longer than he would have done had there been no mass of spectators hedging in the field on all sides in a solid bank of humanity. There was a shrill whistle, the referee's signal, and it called into life the twenty-two motionless figures that stood about the field. Big Hastings ran forward, glancing sharply about to see that his men were on the alert, and the next moment his shoe made a great dent in the side of the new yellow ball. Away it sailed into the air, far over toward Columbia's territory. Straight toward Lanky Wallace, the plucky little quarter-back, it came, and Wallace was right under it. Into his arms, with a resounding "pung!" the spheroid landed, and, like a flash, the quarter passed it to Jack Comfort for a return kick. Comfort's toe found the pigskin as if his shoe belonged there, and back through space went the twisting oval, in a long spiral curve, while the cohorts of both teams loosed the yells that had been long on tap. "Oh, wow!" "Pretty work!" "That's the stuff, old man!" "Fine footwork!" These cries of encouragement to both sides were soon lost in the riot of cheers and appeals to the teams to "go in and win!" Big Hastings once more had the ball, and booted down the field with a tremendous, smashing kick. Lanky and Oakes ran to get under it, with good intentions, but with misdirected energy, and collided forcefully, while the ball bounced from Lanky's shoulder and rolled along the ground, a prize for whoever could first get it. "A miss!" "By jove, our fellows have lost the ball!" "Get to it, Columbia!" Exclamations of dismay, and frantic appeals came from a thousand throats. Like mad the whole twenty-two players darted for the yellow spheroid. There was a mixup, a confused mass of struggling forms, an indiscriminate whirlwind of waving arms and legs, and then, after the frantic blowing of the referee's whistle, and when, slowly, player after player crawled off the heap, Frank emerged, somewhat bruised and dazed, but with the precious ball tucked under his arm. "Oh, good!" "Fine, old man!" "Columbia's ball!" "Frank's got it, all right! That's the stuff. Did you see him slide right in front of Ross, their husky right guard, and cover it? Say, this is a little bit of all right--all right!" cried an enthusiastic follower of Columbia.