The Westcott players trotted forth at the call, determined to make at the outset such a show of power and dash as would put Trowbridge immediately on the defensive. The Trowbridge rushers strung out across the field on a line with the ball. Westcott’s took the usual defensive positions, the centre ten yards back from the ball, the guards flanking him, but behind, the tackles outside the guards and still farther back. Cowles ran forward for his kick-off, but instead of driving the ball to the limit of his powers down the field, he sent it with a little stab of his foot diagonally across toward the side-line. It struck the line outside the Westcott left guard. Bumpus, perplexed at the unexpected play, hesitated a moment before he leaped for the ball. His hesitation cost his side dear, for two Trowbridge rushers crashed into him before he had taken three steps, and the Trowbridge end flung himself on the ball just ahead of Eaton, who pounced upon him like a wild beast upon his prey. Trowbridge had gained the ball on Westcott’s forty-yard line! Sumner’s heart was like lead, as he saw the Trowbridge line open in wide gaps for a trick play. If the Westcott rushers lost their heads now, there was no hope for the team. But a line that sifts evenly through, with each man keeping well within his own territory, is a hard line to work tricks upon; and a strong, aggressive tackle is a dangerous obstacle to end plays. The Westcott line did sift evenly through, and Eaton was a good tackle—so good, indeed, that he burst straight into the Trowbridge interference, and, hooking the runner with a long reach, swung him directly into Hardie’s arms. The next play, which was directed at the open centre, was spoiled by Bumpus, who burned to retrieve himself, before it had advanced three yards. Then, with six yards to gain, Cowles drew back for a kick. “Fake!” shouted Harrison. “Look out for a forward pass!” His warning proved false; it served only to check his own line, and give Cowles a better opportunity to get off his kick. He punted high and with such splendid accuracy that the ball fell at the Westcott six-yard line. McDowell stood under it as it came down, holding his hand high aloft and claiming the privilege of a fair catch. All about him thronged the menacing Trowbridge forwards, ready to seize the ball and carry it across the line should Mac fail to hold it. “I’m glad I’m not there!” thought the anxious Sumner. “I’d fumble it sure! If it should slip out of his hands, now—” But it didn’t. As calmly as if he were in mid field with no one near to disturb him, Mac gathered in the descending ball and heeled his mark. Twenty seconds later Pete’s long punt rolled out at the Westcott forty-five-yard line.