“I’m not going to tell you fellows that you’ve played good football, because you haven’t,” began Dick earnestly. “You’ve let Springdale get the jump on you all through the half. You haven’t watched the ball as you should and you’ve been fooled time after time for that reason alone. You’re every bit as good as Springdale, but you don’t let them know it. You linemen have let play after play go through you just because you’ve been watching your opponents instead of the ball. You’ll never win that way, fellows. You’re putting too much work on the backs. They can’t do it all. You’ve got to keep your eyes on the ball and charge quick and hard. Some of you have been playing much too high. Get down low, and when you charge lift them up. Remember that you’re facing men several pounds heavier than you are. The only way to even that up is to play faster than they do. Don’t meet them on your side of the line; meet them on theirs!” “The same thing is true of you backs. You’ve started slow almost every time. And you’ve let up when you hit the line. Don’t do it! Get your speed before you strike the line and then keep on going! I ought not to have to tell you these things at this late day. You know them well enough, but you don’t do them. Or you _haven’t_ done them. You’ve got to for the rest of the game, though, if you want to win. Some one’s going to score this half. It might as well be us. But if it is to be us we’ve got to play better football. We’ve got to watch the ball, play like lightning and fight like bear-cats! Springdale is going to tire before long, but she’s got a lot of fight in her yet, and you’ve got to work hard to keep her from winning. I want you fellows to go back there now and start in and everlastingly play football! Wake up and show something! You’ve got it, fellows, so show it! When you get the ball at the kick-off, hang on to it and take it right down the field and put it over! You can do it if you’ll only think so. That’s all. Play hard, Clearfield, and fast――_fast_――FAST! Now then: Merrick, Partridge, Cable, Haley, A. Beaton, Scott, Felker, Cottrell, White, Tupper and N. Beaton. All right!” “On the run, fellows!” cried Lanny. The door slammed open and out they trailed, the team to throw off their blankets and race into the field and the substitutes to huddle again along the bench and watch and wait. Cheers met them and the band started “See, the Conquering Hero Comes,” much out of tune, perhaps, but enthusiastically enough to make up for lack of harmony. Clearfield spread itself about the east end of the field and Springdale lined up behind its forty yards while Heath, the center, built up the tee and cocked the ball to his liking. The sun had gone behind the clouds again and a little cold breeze was quartering the field from the northwest, causing spectators to pull rugs around their knees and button coats at the necks and the players to trot about as they waited for the whistle. “Ready, Captain Torrey?” “Ready, sir!”