Collingwood gave the signal for a criss-cross; Lane took the ball, and passed it to Westby, who was already on the run. Westby got clear of the St. John’s end, and seemed well started for a brilliant run; but their halfback chased him across the field and finally, by a tremendous diving tackle, pulled him down. As it was, Westby had made so much of a gain that the distance had to be measured; he had failed by only a few inches to make the required amount, and the ball went to St. John’s on their thirty-five-yard line. St. John’s made two ineffectual rushes; then their fullback, Warner, prepared to kick. Westby and Collingwood raced to their places in the back field. There was a tense moment on both sides; then Warner sent the ball flying high and far. It was Westby’s ball; the St. John’s ends and one of their tackles came down fast under the kick. Irving, with his heart in his throat, watched Westby; the boy, with both hands raised, was wabbling about, stepping to the right, to the left, backward, forward; the ends were there in front of him, crouched and waiting; Collingwood tried to fend them off, but the big tackle rushed in and upset him, and at the same instant the ball fell into Westby’s arms—and slipped through them. One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled over with it a couple of times, rolled up on his feet again and was off with it for the St. Timothy’s goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard line when Collingwood pulled him down. St. John’s were streaming down their side line, shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy’s stood dazed and silent. “Oh, butterfingers!” cried Briggs, stamping his foot. “Just like Wes—he wouldn’t make a football player in a thousand years!” exclaimed Windom. Irving heard the comments; he heard other comments. If St. John’s should score now! He hoped they wouldn’t; he was sorry enough for Westby. But St. John’s did score, by a series of furious centre rushes, and their fullback kicked the goal. And when, fifteen minutes later, the referee blew his whistle, the game was St. John’s, by that score of six to nothing. Irving could understand why some of the St. Timothy’s boys had tears in their eyes. It was pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant visitors rush upon the field, toss the members of their team upon their shoulders, and bear them away exultantly to the athletic house, yelling and flaunting their flags, while the St. Timothy’s players walked disconsolately and silently behind them. It was trying afterwards to stand by and see those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked lines and dance their serpentine of victory on St. Timothy’s ground. It was trying to stand by and watch barge after barge bedecked with blue roll away while the occupants shouted and waved their hats—and left the field to silence and despair.