Then all the St. Timothy’s players capered about for joy, and the spectators shouted as triumphantly as if it had been the St. John’s game; the Harvard team ranged themselves quietly under the goal. Dennison kicked the goal, and the score was tied. For the next ten minutes neither team succeeded in making much progress. St. Timothy’s were playing more aggressively than in the first half; twice Kenyon, the Harvard halfback, started to skirt round Lawrence’s end, but both times Baldersnaith, the St. Timothy’s tackle, broke through and dragged him down. Baldersnaith, Dennison, Morrill, and Collingwood were especially distinguishing themselves for the School. At last, after one of the scrimmages, Dennison got up, hobbled a moment, and then sat down again. Collingwood hurried over to him anxiously. “Wrenched my ankle,” said Dennison. “I guess I’ll be all right in a moment.” Waring, the Fifth Former, who acted as water-carrier, ran out on the field with his pail and sponge. Mr. Barclay examined the ankle, then turned to Collingwood. “I think he could go on playing,” he said. “But if I were you I’d take him out now and save him for the St. John’s game. You don’t want to risk his being laid up for that.” Dennison protested, but Collingwood agreed with Mr. Barclay. He turned and called, “Westby”; and as Westby ran out, Dennison picked himself up and limped to the side-line. It was Harvard’s ball in the middle of the field. Though it was only the first down, Ballard dropped back to kick. “Now then, Wes, hang on to it,” Collingwood cried as he and Westby turned and ran to their places in the back field. Westby had a faint hope that the kick might go to Collingwood; he didn’t feel quite ready yet to catch the ball; he wanted to be given a chance to steady down first. But he knew that was exactly what the Harvard quarterback intended to prevent. The ball came sailing, high and twisting; he had to run back to get under it. Then he planted himself, but the ball as it came down was slanted off by the wind, so that he had at the last to make a sudden dash for it; it struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and then over he went with a terrific shock, which jarred the ball from his grasp. Irving had seen the play with mingled joy and sorrow. It was his brother who had made the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard end, who had dropped on the fumbled ball. Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together; Lawrence’s eyes were dancing with triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard’s now on St. Timothy’s twenty-yard line. And Westby went dully to his position, aware of the accusing silence of the crowd. “All right, Wes; we’ll stop them,” Collingwood said to him cheerfully.