While he spoke, the ball went back. The line in the centre swerved, but held; the Trowbridge ends, followed by the tackles, swooped down upon the waiting quarter, but the Westcott backs blocked them off from the danger zone. Mac got his drop away safely, and, holding his breath, watched the ball floating upward beyond the reach of human hands. It crossed the bar three feet inside the post. The play during the rest of the half was comprehended in two kicks. Trowbridge sent the ball on the kick-off deep into Westcott territory; and Talbot on the first down punted it far back. Sumner, dancing with joy round Mike and the water pail, found himself again in the presence of the lord of the league. “What about that chance that wasn’t coming?” he asked, with a sudden accession of friendliness. “The game isn’t over,” answered President John, sourly. “A single touch-down will wipe that gain out.” At the dressing rooms the usual discussion of the developments of the game was going forward. The bedraggled players, their mud-streaked faces aglow with hope, lay stretched on the floor about the coach, listening eagerly to his last directions. In one corner, Duane, of the Harvard Second, was explaining to Bumpus how, by proper use of his knee, he could hold Hubbard on the offence at least a second longer. Yards, having finished his general exhortation, drew McDowell aside to talk over with him the strategy of the second half, which was, in brief, to play safely, keep the ball in opponents’ territory, and watch for chances. “If we hold them well, you’ll put in Sumner at the last, won’t you?” Mac asked. “Not with the score three to nothing,” answered Yards, quickly. “If we should make a touch-down, then?” persisted Mac. The coach hesitated a moment before replying, but when he spoke, there was no uncertainty in his words. “It wouldn’t be safe. Sumner is a good fellow, and he’s worked hard for the team, but we’re playing the game to win, not to give good fellows a chance to make their W’s. I sha’n’t take any risks.”