The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. Second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School's line. On School's left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. Dick, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was "down." Second had gained less than a yard. "Good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle." Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work." Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pass was employed---that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs. Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School's right end. As the ball was snapped, School's right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him. Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again. Dick was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition---on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second's line---touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers. As Dick came back he limped just a bit. "I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly. "Nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve." The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically. "Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed," "Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker. "Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life."