"Holes as big as a house," said Fatty Harris. "Asleep! They're all asleep!" Dink, pacing up and down, waited the word from Mr. Ware, rebelling because it did not come. Again the scrimmage began, a short advance from the loosely-knit school eleven, a long punt with the wind and then a quick, business-like line-up of the blue team and another rush at the vulnerable end. "Ten yards more; oh, it's giving it away!" said Fatty Harris. Stover knelt and tried his shoelaces and rising, tightened his belt. "I'll be out there in a moment," he said to himself. Another gain at Banks' end and suddenly from the elevens across the field the figure of the captain rose and waved a signal. "Go in, Stover," said Mr. Ware. He ran out across the long stretch to where the players were moving restlessly, their clothes flinging out clouds of steam. Back of him something was roaring, cheering for him, perhaps, hoping against hope. Then he was in the midst of the contestants, Garry Cockrell's arm about his shoulders, whispering something in his ear about keeping cool, breaking up the interference if he couldn't get his man, following up the play. He went to his position, noticing the sullen expressions of his teammates, angry with the consciousness that they were not doing their best. Then taking his stand beyond Tough McCarty, he saw the Andover quarter and the backs turn and study him curiously. He noticed the half-back nearest him, a stocky, close-cropped, red-haired fellow, with brawny arms under his rolled-up jersey, whose duty it would be to send him rolling on the first rush. "All ready?" cried the voice of the umpire. "First down." The whistle blew, the two lines strained opposite each other. Stover knew what the play would be--there was no question of that. Fortunately the last two rushes had carried the play well over to his side--the boundary was only fifteen yards away. Dink had thought out quickly what he would do. He crept in closer than an end usually plays and at the snap of the ball rushed straight into the starting interference before it could gather dangerous momentum. The back, seeing him thus drawn in, instinctively swerved wide around his interference, forced slightly back. Before he could turn forward his own speed and the necessity of distancing Stover and Condit drove him out of bounds for a four-yard loss. "Second down, nine yards to go!" came the verdict. "Rather risky going in like that," said Flash Condit, who backed up his side. "Wanted to force him out of bounds," said Stover. "Oh--look out for something between tackle and guard now." "No--they'll try the other side now to get a clean sweep at me," said Stover. The red-haired half-back disappeared in the opposite side and, well protected, kept his feet for five yards. "Third down, four to gain."