Pete’s punt, which was got off so quickly that the defence was hardly ready for it, went diagonally down the field, and, by rolling out at the Trowbridge thirty-yard line, prevented any running back. Trowbridge tried an end run from a fake kick, but Harrison was not deceived, and threw the runner behind the line. Then recourse was had to punting once more, but the back was slow in getting off his kick, and Bumpus, who had slapped his way through the line and leaped wildly in the air in the path of the ball, took it on his chest and beat it down to the ground. Three men threw themselves at it as it struck, and buried it deep under struggling brown bodies; but the one who lay closest to it, hugging it ecstatically in his arms, proved to be the Westcott left end. The wave of the referee’s hand which moved the measurers down was the signal for shrill whoops from the excited band of youngsters in the Westcott cheering section. Sumner on the side-lines flung his arms about the coach in a transport of delight. “Our ball on the fifteen-yard line!” he cried jubilantly. “We’ve got ’em now!” “Don’t be too sure,” answered Yards, who, though just as eager, had himself under better control. “It’s a hard fifteen yards to cover.” The players were in position now, nerved for the great struggle. Behind their forwards, the Trowbridge backs stood in a line of three. Each linesman recognized that the success or failure of the next play might depend on the quickness with which he leaped. The signal which rang out in Mac’s clear, sharp voice called for a tandem play between left tackle and guard, with Talbot carrying the ball. Eaton, straining to get the jump on his antagonist, moved before the ball, and was off side. The umpire blew his horn; the referee counted back five yards; the lines formed again. “O dear!” groaned Sumner. “What’ll he do now?—I believe he’s going to try a drop!” “It’s a fake,” said Yards, composedly. “He’d try another down if he meant to do that.” McDowell was back holding out his hands, the backs had taken the formation for interference. Ford passed, but it was Talbot who received the ball and made a short, quick kick over the right side of the line. Harrison charged after it with all his speed, but Ricker beat him in the sprint, took the ball on the bounce, and ran round the Westcott captain for a gain of fifteen yards before Talbot forced him out of bounds. From his chagrin at this failure Sumner was aroused by a loud chuckle of mirth close behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes met the exultant gaze of President John. “Wasted his chance,” remarked the dignitary, with an oily grin of recognition. “I’m afraid he won’t get another.” Sumner nodded and moved down the line.