“Hold them, Scrub!” shouted Nostrand hoarsely, and, “Throw ’em back!” yelled Farrar. “Get down there, Shaw! Play low, fellows! Get under ’em and throw ’em back!” Then――well, no one ever had a very clear idea of what immediately ensued. All that is known is that somewhere between the North Side center and Wightson the ball went astray and that for the longest four seconds on record it bobbed and trickled about under the feet of fully half the contending players. But after that what happened was just this. Fudge Shaw, who, perhaps, owed his presence at center more to his ability to keep his eyes on the ball than to any other feature of his playing, was one of the first to cry “Ball! Ball!” Also, he was one of the first to break through. Unfortunately, he came through on his hands and knees and his first effort to capture the erratic pigskin only sent it further afield. But Fudge, by a miracle of spontaneity that must have shocked his system dreadfully, rolled to his feet, seized the bobbing ball from under the outstretched hands of a North Side player and staggered off with it! Having done that much, Fudge was willing to call a halt, and he proved it by stopping stock-still and, looking back, inviting someone to lay him low. But, as it happened, he was for the moment unchallenged, and instead of a tackle he received the exultant, imperious, entreating cries of his team-mates to “Run, Shaw!” “Go it, Fudge!” He heard those cries plainly, in spite of the counter-cries from the momentarily befuddled enemy, and, although they chimed in not at all with his inclinations, he obeyed them and started, somewhat irresolutely, toward the far-distant goal. Fudge was not built for speed. There was no unnecessary fat on his somewhat rotund body, but his legs were short and stocky and his strides, lengthen them as he might, covered scant territory. But, despairingly he ran, with the enemy momentarily drawing nearer and nearer, a grim, flaming-haired Danny, with “Danger” written all over him, in the lead. To say that Fudge despaired because the enemy promised to stop his flight would be wide of the truth. Fudge despaired because they didn’t hurry up and do it! Fudge had not the slightest desire in all the wide, wide world to race at breakneck speed down that interminable field and become a hero. The price was too large! If someone would only take the ball from him, it would be fine! And, as if in answer to Fudge’s wish, Danny Shores gained until he was close behind. And Fudge, half closing his eyes, awaited the shock of that tackle. But it didn’t come! Feet spurned the turf behind him, a purple-stockinged figure raced up, Danny Shores went reeling to earth and Fudge was again out of danger, free to carry that ball in triumph over some eighty yards! The player who had cleared Danny from his course was the fleet-footed Grover and with a world of entreaty in his eyes and voice, Fudge half turned, held the pigskin out and faltered laboredly, “Take it!”