With the score nine to nothing and the game nearly over, there seemed no serious doubt as to the outcome. So thought Mac, at least, when Harrison recovered the ball on a fumble near his fifty-yard line, and Pete punted down close to the Trowbridge goal. It was high time that Sumner should appear if he was to be sent into the game at all, but Yards made no move to send him. Mac considered the matter at intervals, while he stood far back waiting for his friends in the line to gain possession of the ball. The result of his consideration was to arouse in his mind the suspicion that Yards was working, not for a safe victory, but for a score which would leave no doubt as to the success of his coaching. “Jack deserves a chance, and he is going to get it!” muttered Mac to himself. “If it can’t come one way, it shall another.” The Westcott defence had just thrown back another attempt at a skin-tackle play, and Harrison signalled to his quarter to be ready for a kick. Mac was under the ball when it came down, and slipping by the end, zigzagged a dozen yards up the field before he succumbed to two hard Trowbridge tacklers. Ford came puffing back and took the ball from his hand; but Mac, instead of scrambling to his feet and calling out his signals as the team gathered, remained squirming on the ground. “What’s the matter?” asked Harrison, anxiously, as he knelt beside him. “My right ankle!” groaned Mac, twisting his face into an expression of frightful pain. Time was called; Mike appeared with his water pail and sponge, closely followed by Yards. Together they rubbed the injured joint, while Mac writhed and moaned. “How much time is left?” he asked. “Three minutes.” “I’ll see if I can stand.” Yards and Harrison lifted the sufferer to his feet. He took a step with his right foot, rested his weight on it,—and went down in a heap. “Do you think it’s broken?” asked the coach in alarm. “I guess not,” replied Mac, transforming a grin into a grimace, “but you’ll have to send Jack in.” Yards called for Sumner, and the maimed quarter went hobbling off the field, supported by Yards and Louis Tracy, and saluted by a booming salvo from the graduates, and an impassioned cheer from the schoolboy section. Yards proposed to send him directly to the dressing rooms and call in a physician, but Mac pleaded piteously to be allowed to see the game out. So he stood at the side-lines, leaning on Louis’s shoulder. “We should have made another touch-down if you hadn’t got hurt,” said the coach, in a resentful tone, as Horr at the first signal was pushed through outside Ben Tracy for a gain of five yards. “We had ’em on the run.” “Jack will do just as well,” answered Mac, calmly. “He’s better on the offence than I am.”