Chester Cottrell thumped the lineman on the back, hoarsely encouraging and threatening. Lanny pulled his head-guard on again and the whistle shrilled. The backs sprang to their places and Cottrell gave the signal. Tupper received the ball and hurled himself at the right of the line, but the Blue held and there was no gain. Cottrell scolded and raged. A criss-cross sent Lanny three yards through left guard, and it was third down with seven to go, the pigskin on the twenty-three. On the side line Morris was trotting slowly up and down, casting eager, inquiring glances at Dick’s inscrutable face. “Signals!” shrieked Cottrell. “Get into it now, Clearfield! Make this go! Signals! 81――29――61!” “Watch for a forward!” called the Springdale quarter from under his goal. “Come back, Holman! Break this up, Springdale!” “81――29――61!” The ball went to Chester, Lanny and Tupper swept to the right and hurled themselves at tackle, Chester, his back to the enemy, hugged the ball. Confusion reigned. The left of the Springdale line broke. Then Beaton sprang ahead, took the ball at a hand-pass, and slid through the center, was tackled, plunged on, fighting and squirming, went down with two Springdale backs on him and finally grunted “Down!” The whistle blew and the referee sprang at the pile-up and heeled the spot. “Fourth down!” he called. “Two to go!” On the side line Morris tugged at his sweater and cast an impatient look at Dick. But the latter shook his head and Morris walked back to the bench and sat down again. “They’ve got two yards to go, Dick,” he said doubtfully. “Yes, and they can do it, Morris. Your time will come. Wait.” And do it they did, Lanny himself squeezing through between center and left guard for just enough to secure first down. The ball was now on the thirteen yards and Clearfield was yelling like so many Comanche Indians, while steady cheers for Springdale rolled across the field. Cottrell hurried the fellows back into place, called his signal and hurled Beaton at left tackle. Two yards resulted. Springdale was stiffening now under the shadow of her goal. Beaton was yanked to his feet, and hobbled back to position. “98――49――32!” The lines set and the backs crouched. “98――49――32!” Back came the ball, Lanny and Tupper plunged at the left of the line, Beaton sprang forward and―― “_Ball! Ball!_” cried Chester. Beaton had fumbled! A Springdale lineman hurled himself past with a mighty rasping of canvas and plunged forward. Chester was tossed aside. A muffled voice called “Down!” and the whistle blew. “Springdale’s ball!” cried the referee. “First down! Ten to go!” A groan of disappointment arose from the Clearfield stand, but the blue pennants waved mightily and two hundred Springdale voices burst into wild acclaim. Beaton, with miserable face, hung his head as the Blue’s quarter took command. But Lanny shouted encouragement: “Never mind that, fellows! Let’s get it back! Now play, play!”