Over near the twenty-yard line, on the side of the field, Coach Cotting on one knee and watched with expressionless face. But a , picked from the turf, flew back and from one hand to the other. Further along a line of blanket-draped substitutes low, their faces anxious and intent. One of these was Rodney and one was Phineas Kittson. Kitty had twice expressed mild surprise that his services had not been called for. I think he had almost begun to doubt Cotting’s intelligence. But the coach himself then and there. As the whistle he sprang alertly to his feet.  
“Kittson!” he cried.
 
Kitty, dropping his blanket, hurried across. The coach clapped him on the shoulder.
 
 
“Go in for Captain Doyle,” he said quietly. “And stop them where they are, Kittson!”
 
Doyle, after an instant of bewildered rebellion, handed the captaincy to Stacey Trowbridge, yielded his head-guard to Kitty and walked off, none too , to a loyal cheer from the south stand. Then a fell on the field and the quarter-back’s signals sounded clearly and .
 
“41—21—64!” A pause, and then: “41—21——”
 
There was a mad , a confusion of striving bodies and then the fateful sound of the whistle. Slowly the players found their feet. There was an instant of for the watchers on the stands. Then Bursley, jumping and waving, started back up the field and Hill ranged herself behind the posts. The ball lay squarely on the line and the Red-and-Blue had scored a touchdown!
 
Two minutes later another point had been added to Bursley’s score and the game stood 7 to 3. There was six minutes remaining when the ball was recovered after the goal had been kicked and the teams again ranged themselves[296] on the field. Captain Doyle, blanketed, white of face and dismayed, paced slowly back toward the center of the field at the coach’s side. The ball arched up and away and the players raced toward it. Beyond the further end of the field the sun was setting in a blaze of golden glory.
 
“There’s Merrill,” the coach was saying.
 
Terry Doyle shook his head hopelessly.
 
“They’ll play on the now,” went on Mr. Cotting. “It’s a time to try everything we have, Terry. We can’t lose any more and we may win something. We might put in Burnham, too.”
 
“All right, sir. You know best. But Tyson still looks good.”
 
“I know, but—Who’s got that ball? He’s down! ! Good work, Hunter! He’s played a good game, Hunter. Well, we’ll try Merrill, I guess. I’ll send him in after this play. Merrill!”
 
Rodney ran up, trailing his blanket behind him. The coach took his arm and led him along with them as they walked. “Merrill,” he said, never taking his eyes from the play for[297] more than a instant, and speaking easily and untroubledly, “do you want to go in and have a try at it?”
 
“Yes, sir!” Rodney’s heart jumped into his throat.
 
“Well, go ahead after this play. You know you slipped up the other day, Merrill. Maybe this is a good time to get square. What do you think?”
 
“Yes, sir! I’ll try, Mr. Cotting.”
 
The coach nodded. “I would. Tell Trowbridge I said he was to use you and that from now on everything goes. He will understand. Get it?”
 
“He’s to use me and from now on everything goes,” repeated Rodney.
 
“Right. There’s the whistle. Go in for Tyson.”
 
Rodney dropped his blanket and raced on with upraised head. The teams were on Maple Hill’s forty-five yards and already Stacey was taking his position behind Pounder.
 
“Substitute for left half, sir!” cried Rodney to the .
 
Stacey rose and nodded. “You’re off, Roger,”[298] he said. He drew back with Rodney. “Any instructions?”
 
“Cotting says you’re to use me and that from now on everything goes,” whispered Rodney.
 
“All right. Watch close! Got your signals pat, Rodney? Don’t miss ’em! All right, fellows! Make this go now! Here’s where we start something!”
 
Rodney, pulling his head guard on,............