The Clearfield players trotted to the dressing-room and the visitors retired to a tent in a corner of the field. Cheers and songs started again, the band played its loudest and some twelve hundred spectators excitedly discussed what had happened and predicted what was going to happen. There was no gainsaying the fact that the Blue had shown the more consistent offense or that in the matter of punting she had fully equaled the home team. That Clearfield plainly possessed a more versatile attack was allowed, but whether she had plays capable of gaining inside the twenty-yard line was a question, except that, as everyone knew, Brent could be depended on to score from the field provided the line held. Doubtless Clearfield would do her utmost in the next half to reach a position where Brent’s science could be used. As to defense, it seemed a toss-up between the Purple and the Blue. Both teams had been well trained in that department. If there was any difference it lay in the fact that Springdale’s forwards were a bit quicker at charging, thus leaving less work to the backs. In the two periods played Springdale had made eight first downs to Clearfield’s three, not an encouraging showing for the home team. Perhaps Dick was considering that as he followed the team and substitutes into the dressing-room. At least, he looked sober enough in all truth. Springdale was not showing the signs of overtraining that Dick had more or less counted on, although there had been moments in the last few minutes of the second period when he had thought he could detect a falling off in the power of the attack. The removal of two linemen also suggested that the Blue was approaching its limit of endurance. For his own team Dick had no fears. They had stood the hard smashing of the Springdale backs excellently. Not a player had weakened under the strain and none of those taken out had sustained injuries sufficient to prevent his reinstatement. Dick expected the Purple to play better in the next two periods, expected it, in fact, to finish stronger than it had begun, for there was no denying that it had played a slower and more listless game than it had showed against Weston the week before. While the fellows were being rubbed and having their bruises attended to, Dick conferred with Lanny and Chester Cottrell. Lanny was pretty well keyed-up, Chester unusually grim and silent. “We’ve got to have Tupper back, Dick,” declared the captain. “Hansard doesn’t get into it.” “All right, Lanny. And look here, you’ve got to hump that line up on defense. Do you get me? They’re getting the jump on us every time. What’s the trouble?” “I don’t know,” replied Lanny rather wildly. “They’ve been letting every blessed play through on us. That’s a mean attack of theirs, Dick; you can’t size it up.”