To-day was no sort of day to slow up play for instruction, and so Mr. Otis swallowed many remarks that almost choked him and let the battle surge. And it surely surged. The very appearance of the Scrub players had been an affront, with their cocksure swaggering as they took the field, and now, with the war on, their behavior was preposterously insulting. The poor weaklings, culls from the First Team orchard, so to speak, acted as if they thought themselves real timber! It was well-nigh sickening to First Team sensibilities, and so the First Team set itself to inflict disciplinary punishment. For a while it seemed that the Scrub was due to emerge from the engagement with a chastened spirit, but that was only for a while, and a brief while at that. Having allowed the First to reach the fourteen yards, though far from willingly, the Scrub dug its cleats, and gave an excellent imitation of a stone wall. Against that wall Quarterback Stoddard dashed Fargo and Jensen and Fargo again, and when the three attempts had been made the wall was scarcely dented. The First was plainly puzzled; puzzled and angry too. But that any Scrub――at least any Scrub so recently born――could actually hold the first for four downs was unthinkable, and so, scorning to be satisfied with the three points a field-goal would have given, Stoddard unwisely pulled Captain Lothrop out of the line and instructed him, by means of signals, to bust through and put the ball down not short of the four yards. Unfortunately, Stoddard lost track of the fact that Dave’s place at left guard was being handed over to Sproule, playing half instead of Whitemill. When the ball was snapped, Clem Henning drew Sproule forward on his nose, strode over him and stopped Captain Dave neatly and expeditiously for a gain of some eighteen inches. Dazed, First yielded the pigskin. Any one knows that the only thing to do when the ball comes into your possession close to your goal is to punt it away from there. So Sim did something else! He called “Kemble back!” the ball was shot to Tom from center, and Tom took three steps back and to his left, and swept the pigskin down the field with an overhand spiral throw. Clif had let the opposing end by outside, evaded a back and was clear. Not far behind him ran Sim. Toward them both came the ball. Sim turned, looked and panted: “Take it!” Clif whirled, stood and held his hands out. Never before in a contest had he ever attempted a long catch of a forward-pass, and he wished devoutly that the ball had gone to Sim. Without seeing he knew that the whole field of players was converging on him. Then the ball struck his hands, and by some miracle, as it seemed to him, stuck! Turning quickly, he had a blurred vision of Sim crashing into an opponent. The background of the brief picture was a confusion of moving bodies, looming larger with each instant.