Beaton tried the left of the Blue’s line and secured a scant yard. Springdale called time and administered to her right guard. Lanny attempted to get past left tackle but was pushed back. Springdale again asked for time. And as the whistle blew a sudden cheer burst from the Clearfield section. On to the field raced two purple-stockinged warriors. One was Chester Cottrell and the other Morris Brent. Springdale in imagination saw the game slip from them then. It would be no trick for Brent to drop or place-kick from the seventeen-yards. “All right, Perry,” called Chester. “Sorry! Let’s have that head-guard.” The players clustered around Morris and thumped him ecstatically. Perry Hull trotted disconsolately off and the whistle blew again. Clearfield sprang back to position. Beaton, following Hull from the field and dragging his feet wearily as he went, offered a jumbled, inarticulate prayer for victory. “All right now, Clearfield!” shouted Chester cheerily. “Here’s where we score! Everyone into this hard!” On the bench, Fudge Shaw, taking the place beside Dick left vacant by Morris, whispered nervously: “Is he g-g-going to t-t-t-try it now, D-D-Dick?” Dick, his hands clutching his crutches tensely, his face rather white and strained, nodded without turning. Fudge gave vent to a huge sigh. “Gee!” he muttered fervently. “I hope it g-g-goes!” Then Cottrell’s voice came sharply across the field again: “Brent back! Left tackle over!” Morris slowly retreated to kicking distance. “_Block this!_” shouted Springdale. “_Block this kick! Get through and block it!_” Chester followed Morris back and knelt in front of him. “All right?” he asked, looking up. Morris nodded, shuffling on his feet. Chester patted the ground with his hand. Morris looked for an instant at the cross-bar and edged back another foot or so. “A little more this way,” he said. “_Block this, Springdale!_” implored the Blue’s quarter, dodging back and forth behind the line. “All right,” said Morris. Quiet fell over the field. The Clearfield linemen crouched. Lanny, behind his own left guard, poised tensely. Across from him, Tupper stood ready to guard the kicker. Todd was between Beaton and Wayland on the right of the line. Chester, facing the left, one knee on the ground, held his hands toward the center. “Signals!” he shouted briskly. “44――18――110!” Morris gave a final look at the cross-bar. The enemy, panting, gasping, swayed restively. “44――18――110!” “_Block it! Block it!_” shrieked the defenders.